


A Little Unfriendly Competition

by EzraTheBlue



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, Androids, Community: 7thnight_smut, Cyborgs, Hair Kink, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EzraTheBlue/pseuds/EzraTheBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Game Sanzang is a seasoned and successful racer, which is surprising for a man with almost no implants in a league where many of the racers are decked with replacement parts. However, he's got his share of problems-- namely, an annoying but attractive rival and a plot to break his winning streak for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [genkisakka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genkisakka/gifts).



> This was written for the 2015 7th Night Exchange! It's the first exchange I've ever participated in, and it was immensely fun. The prompt I was given was "cyborg racing AU. Gojyo and Sanzo are rivals on the circuit, each hates the other, and each secretly thinks the other is hot." I started off a little less than confident, but once I got going, the story got a mind of its own and exploded into conspiracy and intrigue, with sex, violence, and sexy men in skintight vinyl on motorcycles.
> 
> So, thanks to genkisakka for the amazing prompt, and very special thanks to jedishampoo for her AMAZING beta-fu! Seriously, I dropped this monster on her just before the deadline, and she helped me clean this up to a polished sheen! I've never been so happy with my own work. Enjoy!

**1:**

This high up, he could see it all. Game was standing with his toes at the starting line, feeling the wind through the thin mesh and vinyl of his skintight racer's uniform against his skin. The breeze caught in his hair and he shut his eyes tight against the orange ambient light and breathed it all in. He smelled ozone from the motors, coolant vapors off the road, the distant scent of human bodies crowded in the stands and smoke, and he pulled it all into his lungs.

Every racer had a pre-countdown ritual. Thirteen in the ninth seed was doing handstands and waving to his fans. One in the last seed was kneeling with his head on his seat, praying under his breath. If Game were to turn around and check, he could be sure that Five, just behind him (always just behind him) was sitting with his feet propped on the handlebars and taking a drag off of a nicotine vapor pipe, his shadow cast long against the flashing holoscreen overhead. Game, though-- Game preferred studying the terrain and breathing deeply.

This ritual had gotten him the unfortunate nickname of “The Monk.” Baije, his manager, would tell reporters that Game was meditating to center his mind and focus. That he needed to think, to forget the drones and their cameras whirring over his head and the roar of the crowds, so he could do his very best every time. Baije was lying, but nobody who didn't already know the truth could tell with a smile like he had. Anyone who knew Game beyond the quiet, stoic persona he put on for interviews knew that he was the furthest thing from a monk. Then again, the list of people who could attest to that was not a very long one, and Game was fine with that.

At the high starting point of the Pax course, Game could just make out the reflective surface of the oxygen dome, and if he squinted, the yellow sky beyond that. However, he could also see the rest of the course. He preferred when they started high- he could see some of the twists and turns on the Solarroad, the black glass all lit up with blue LEDs to mark the course in the dim, dusty afternoon light. He hardly needed to look to know where he was going. Pax was his home course; it was where he practiced, so he was intimately familiar with any direction the hydraulics under the road could turn, all the myriad ways the course could be rearranged, and he could see the admins had gone with a particularly twisted lap today. Baije was telling him as much through the comm piece embedded in his ear:

"There's a sharp corner about a mile in, and some jags near the finish. I don't have to tell you to take caution. I'd advise turning the allowances on your G-adapter up as well; there are some severe altitude shifts today."

Game nodded. Baije, in the box, could see him, and he heard Baije's quiet laughter to acknowledge that the message was received. "Best of luck. I have full confidence in you." Baije was a shrewd man, always meant well and did his best to take care of him. He knew when he had to warn Game and when he didn't. He knew he didn't have to wish Game luck, but he had all the manners Game generally lacked and did it anyway.

Game studied the track a moment longer, feeling his corneal implants ache and work to take it all in. The track wound through the jagged skyline, and the walls on the black-box buildingsflashed with the racers’ profile photographs and stats in rotation. He heard sections of the crowd raising their cheers in turn for their favored racers. Game sneered to himself, turned the volume on his audio receptors down, and rubbed the spaces behind his ear that controlled his G-force adapters. He hated leaving them on; they made him so dizzy walking around. Hell, he hated most of his implants. It made the world louder and brighter and made everything feel heavier than he remembered it being as a child. Still, wasn't a racer today, not in the Eastern Title Division or even its bush leagues, that didn't have at least the basics.

That was half of what had gotten Game his notoriety. All he had were the basics. Corneal implants to allow for faster absorption of visual data and sharper distance vision, aural implants to translate language as it was spoken and improve his hearing on the track, subdermal implants in his fingers that let him control his bike, and the G-force adapters so he didn't upchuck on every fifty-meter drop. As racing got ever more and more extreme, cybernetic implants had become more necessary, to the point where most racers got their sponsorships exclusively from the manufacturers of their parts. Game's corneal implants were his main sponsor, but only because he talked them up when he had to. Aspect Tech was fairly traditional, and Game rather appreciated the old-fashioned approach. Some of his opponents mocked him for being a boring old man, but in his opinion, they could suck it. He didn't need more than what he had.

The other half-- fine, maybe another quarter-- of his notoriety came from the fact that he was leading the league for the fourth year running. Two percent, he acknowledged, was his 'bad boy, quiet guy' attitude that somehow still got him fans and unwanted admirers, but the other twenty-three was the reason he studied the track.

Card had died at Pax about ten years ago, during the Grand Prix. His cycle had wrecked, and nobody had ever quite figured out how such a seasoned racer had made what seemed like such a rookie mistake. Still, that had left Game in the care of estate executors and handlers, both of which had hoped that he would seek a safer path through life. Game had never been interested in that. Instead, Game had followed his adoptive father onto the track and into the leagues. He got his first implants the week after his adoptive father's funeral, practiced on the bikes left behind, and when he made his debut, the announcers made damn sure everyone knew that was Card's son on the track. Now, though, Game always picked out the curve, a sharp bend right near the end, that had taken Card and marked it in his mind. He'd find any similar curves on any track he was on, remembering that a small mistake could end his life in an instant, _right there._

At least he wouldn't leave anybody behind.

He heard the announcer shout for racers to start their engines. He put his helmet on, then vaulted onto his cycle and rested his fingers on the handlebars. Nine other bikes all revved up, but Game only heard his. The lights on the bars lit, pale yellow but pink through his fingernails and the thin mesh of his gloves, as the circuitry in his fingers synced with the machine now humming between his legs. He gave the bike a caress down the side with his palm, the chrome cool against his skin. The Number Three was a thing of beauty, white, sleek and silvery with piping that looked opalline in the dying light. He could practically feel the energy channeling from the solar cells in the roadway through the tactile circuitry in the wheels and into the engine humming in the machine's heart. With him bent against it, it was a slender rocket, its curves ideally aerodynamic, and he would slam through the stratosphere if he had to. Baije kept her in good enough shape for it. Three was built for speed. A few racers went for models with larger front wheels, something that helped with balance on the curves-- like the moron on the Number Five, his contraption bright red and silver and gleaming reflections from the holoscreens and lights onto the roadway. Game preferred a classic model. It had never failed him. Today, he was sure, would be no different, despite the second seed nagging ever closer at his heels.

“Baije,” he muttered into his comm. “Watch Five. He's been up my ass the past week.” Baije agreed with a nonverbal hum, but Game knew Baije already knew- Five had been trailing Game all season, and Game was pretty sick of it.

Game didn't say any more about it, though. He closed off his mind to think of nothing but the road. He pushed his fingers forward and felt the engine roar against his gut, then shut his eyes for the count.

"Three... two... one..."

He opened his eyes, cranked the motor, and tore off in high gear. The rush of sight and sound as his vision and aural senses switched completely over to the implants was like entering a tunnel, and as the speedometer climbed past a hundred and twenty, he saw only lines of bright white and blue lights as he soared down the road. His body hugged the bike as he leaned into each turn, and the wind battering his helmet fueled his adrenaline the same as his motor pushed his bike faster, faster, faster. Baije was rattling off instructions into his ear, speaking as fast as he could think:

"Nine's fallen behind, looks like he got clipped by Seventeen in the breakaway. Five is in third, Twenty-one is in second. You're ahead and clear, but there are some sharp ups and downs coming. Be ready."

Game cranked into gear as the drop came, careening with his body against the cycle down a steep incline. Seeing the road rise up in front of him made his gut lurch, but after a hundred times around the track, he'd learned to ignore the nausea that got past his adapters. Besides, the adrenaline he got on the incline, gearing up all the way to the top then bursting out over the crest, was nothing short of bliss. No VR or serotonin implants could make him happy, not when he had this soaring feeling embedded in his memory.

As he broke out into a straightaway, Baije urgently sounded off: "Five's in second and gaining ground. Mind your rearview."

Shit! That son of a bitch! Game checked his side mirror and caught a glimpse of the obnoxious red bike and its black-helmeted rider just in sight. He ground his teeth together, dug his heels in against the stirrups, and cranked his cycle into top gear. He picked up a roar at the edge of his hearing as Five did the same, and saw some of the other bikes come into view behind Five. Fine with him. The straights were for jockeying anyway, and hopefully, Five would just get caught up in it.

Game always hoped so, and had done ever since Five had begun chasing his heels and had even overtaken him a few times. Their rankings were always neck and neck, and once Game had made it to the top, Five's score had only been a few seconds behind his. It was unspeakably annoying, especially considering the nature of every conversation he'd had with the rider. And now, Five wasn't even getting caught in the battle for score, but was weaving, snakelike, between and betwixt any attempts to push him back, like the vinyl riding up his asscheeks. And he was still getting closer.

Game swore into his mouthpiece as they hit the curves, because this was the tricky part. He couldn't afford to play games with Five here. Five, too, was low against his cycle, clutching its lithe body with his knees as if for dear life, and yet his back was relaxed and the slight movements of his fingers that Game could see were lax and calculated. Game cranked his handlebars again, pushing the overdrive as he took the first turn. The yellow lights flickered to red, and he felt the engine scream right into his belly.

His cycle leaned deep as he bent into the curve, the bike's handlebars near dipping to the ground on the corner. Game's head and stomach lurched with the abrupt motion. His circuitry made his blood boil as his body fought to catch up with his senses, but fuck it, he could catch himself up later and puke his guts out as a reward. He bent into the next curve of the zigzag without dropping speed for a second. He checked his mirror and- shit! How?! Five was right there, closer than ever, going just as fast, and how?! He'd memorized the specs on cycle Five-- its max tested speed was nowhere near Game's, and there was no way that goddamned rookie could match Game's skill. How the fuck was he still catching up?!

They came into the last straightaway, and a huge air current sent Game reeling as Five came up alongside him. Five's rider turned his head towards Game, making eye contact through the black visor of his helmet, and smiled a big, toothy, challenging grin. Game's blood boiled over and he leaned towards Five as if to ram him. Five dodged to the side, but his sharp movement jerked him out of gear and gave Game a chance to pull ahead again. Not by much, but enough. Just through the last big turn and there was the finish; Game wouldn't have to see Five's mug again until the next time they had to race together.

There it was, practically hairpin, veering into a deep curve. Game could still see it when he closed his eyes some nights: Card's indigo cycle stuttering in place and turning end over end. Card, stunned, releasing his grip on the handlebars and flying into the barrier like a ragdoll, then the cycle ramming right against the concrete with only Card to cushion its impact before the cameras cut away from the scene and swallowed the only bright light of Game's life into black. The odor of burning flesh and oil still lingered fresh in his mind. This was where Card had died, with Game sitting mute and numb in the audience, watching it all unfold on the holoscreens and feeling Card's eyes fix on him for the last time. He pinned his lips shut and focused his gaze with mental blinders, and took the turn hard.

That was the only way to do it. No doubt. No holding back. Take your life into your hands and hang on tight.

It was right at the center of the curve. Game blinked, and the Five cycle was veering past him. That close he could see the racer's eyes through the dark visor, glinting to match a sinister grin, but he could also see the angle of Five's bike, and the wheels were way too close to his. The instant became infinite as Game's mind raced, and the circuitry in his eyes damn near shorted out as he tried to take in every possibility. Five was going to hit him if their bikes stayed at that angle and they kept turning like this, he was going to slam into that wall and shatter every bone in his body, he was going to burn up-- But no, damn it, no, that's not what was going to happen! Game leaned back into the curve and directed the bike laterally towards Five, and he saw the racer's expression shift from victorious glee to panic and Five jerked out of the way, spinning out. He kicked off the wall when his momentum slowed, steel-soled boots screeching and throwing sparks as Five got himself right and got right back into forward momentum, but Game was no longer focused on him, he was loose, just ride!

His vision, his hearing, it all meant nothing as he tore into the home stretch, the finish line in plain sight. He could see road, he could hear number Five behind him and somehow, inexplicably, gaining again. Baije was shouting something, but Game was singly fixed to the finish line, lit by shimmering lights.

And yet, even there, somehow, Five was beside him again at the line, skidding past him as they crossed over. Instantly, the holoscreens surrounding the bleachers reflected both Three and Five, and all the spectators roared to their feet in adulation and uproar. Game squeezed the brakes, the lights in his handlebars turned blue then vanished, and he skidded to a halt and spun round to where Five had pulled to a halt and had already pulled his helmet loose. It was like a punch to the gut just looking at the stupid bastard.

Jyosha Capaco, shaking loose a curtain of hair so red it couldn't be real, suntanned skin lit by a glimmering spectrum of colored lights in mimicry of confetti, beamed a crooked grin at the crowds and waved. His lean, limber body, all too visible in black and bright red skintight synth-leather, his legions of screaming fans chanting his name, "Jyo! Jyo! Jyo!" Game pulled his helmet off and dropped it on the seat of his cycle, then turned off his audio receptors so he didn't have to pick up the hurried discussion between the announcers overhead and the judges far away from the track. No. It didn't even matter which of them had won anymore, because this guy was a moron and Game couldn't stand for that.

He marched over to Jyosha and wheeled him around by his shoulders. This close, he could smell that too-good-to-be-true hair, the scent of tangerines and rose hips that wafted over the reek of the road. Jyo looked shocked for a moment, then his face split into a wide, wide grin. "Didja hear that, dude? They're goin' to micrometers for the finish.” This close, Game could tell Jyo's language was being translated, the movements of his mouth not quite matching with the words Game was hearing. Something in his gut just liked watching Jyo's mouth move. “It's lookin' like it's gonna be you, but holy shit, how amazing was that?!" He laughed wildly, and Game grunted with disgust and shouted over the rest of the racers pulling into the end zone.

"You stupid fuck, what is your problem?! We could have both been killed!" Game shook him, though this was not easily accomplished. Jyo was taller and a little heavier, and though he was gangly, long legs and broad shoulders, he was dense with tight muscle. Jyo laughed harder and pushed Game's hand off.

"Yeah, but we didn't! And ain't that half the fun of it, Mister Monk?" Jyo snickered. Whatever he said next was drowned out by a cycle speeding past him, but Game heard the end of it: " ... probably never had a day of fun in your whole life. Maybe if you smiled a little, you'd be happy." Jyo smirked and winked. "Or find someone willing to make you happy, eh?"

Game felt the burn in his cheeks and wound his arm back. "You reckless-!" Before he could throw the punch, a thin hand caught his arm and held it high.

"Congratulations, Game!" It was Baije, as cool as silk as ever in his race day semi-formals, dark hair whipped by the wind, the picture of an erudite young man, camera-ready face and a trained smile. He beamed for the flashbulbs and forced Game to wave. "The judges decided: you've taken first." Game hadn't even noticed the holovision images change to show only his face, and the leaderboard on some of them displaying the full lineup. Sure enough, he was at the top, but his and Jyo's times were identical down to the lowest visible count. Somewhere above, an announcer was shouting that this was one of the closest races in the history of the league, and how unlikely that an out-of-nowhere rookie could keep so close to seasoned veteran Game Sanzang's heels and other such blather and nonsense that Game couldn't be bothered to care about. But Baije was there to keep him from doing what he really wanted, namely, ripping the grin right off of that moron's stupid, gorgeous face. Baije subtly tugged his arm, and he could hear the mechanical click as he switched to their internal communicators. "Game, let's go to the winner's circle before you commit assault during a live public broadcast." He released Game and stepped past him, offering a hand to Jyo and speaking aloud. "Congratulations, Jyosha. We hope to see you at the Grand Prix in a few weeks."

"Thanks, Mr. Zhu. Glad you're a little easier to talk to than the dog on your chain." Game had already turned his back to walk away as Jyo snickered behind his back. "Hey, look, I've been-"

"Jyo." Jyo's manager, a wan blonde man with a rough face and shaven eyebrows, had come up behind him and quickly cut off their conversation, and Baije turned to chase Game as he strode for the winner's circle and the unavoidable media circus, shoulders still hunched with anger. Baije would coach him through his introversion, and by then, Jyosha would be long gone. Not the thought of him, though, and Game was going to explore that headlong the second he had the chance.

That infuriating, gorgeous _bastard._

 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Game wants to get a closer look at Jyosha, and gets more than he bargained for.

**2:**

Game's home was no longer the peaceful villa surrounded by gardens in which Card had hoped to nurture him. He'd sold it to purge any chance of reliving memories of the place. Instead, he'd bought a garage in the middle of Pax City, where he parked his bike on the ground floor and slept in the loft. There were a few storage rooms, and a corner of the garage had been converted into a kitchen with a small living space next to the workbench, but that was all he needed. It wasn't perfect- the generators never kicked in quite fast enough if the solar power collected wasn't enough, and Game had no good way of covering the skylight at night so the moon didn't light the room- but Game had no interest in trading. He had no need for a house with twenty rooms when all but two would be left empty. Of course, that didn't account for Baije, but then again, he'd never accounted for Baije. Didn't make a difference to him. It just meant that the room that was supposed to be an office had purpose, and the way Game saw it, waste not, want not.

Baije was greeted by his assist unit, Forty-Six, a modular bot that took the form of a white orb less than half a meter in diameter at rest but unfurled into a serpentine form propelled through air by repulsors to greet him when he stepped out of the cab. Forty-Six rubbed its head, or whatever it had that passed for a head, against Baije's chin, then unfurled its sides into a clamp. Together, they unloaded the Three cycle from its trailer on the back of Baije's uniwheel. Game stormed out of the cab, hopping off the wheel and striding straight for the work space just off the concrete floor. Game loathed uniwheels-- ridiculous contraptions, give him the subtle knife of a cycle any day. A cab mounted on a single sphere looked ungainly compared to the four-wheeled vehicles of antiquity, but the uniwheels boasted stability and balance. Not unlike the larger wheel on the Five cycle, but that thought in and of itself drove Game back to distraction. The steel soles of his boots clanked on the ground until he reached the edge of the concrete and bent right down to unlatch them and pull them off. Baije sighed from his spot supervising Unit Forty-Six.

"Game, you really must let this grudge go." He spread his hands, long, pale fingers casting longer shadows. "I understand the man annoys you, but it's a mere rivalry. Most race leagues have them, and yours is stirring some interesting drama. Your patrons are abuzz with excitement, and even your sponsors- and this is including his- are enjoying the back and forth."

"That idiot is always on my heels. He nearly took my life tonight." Game put one boot aside and started on the other.

"It wasn't intentional, nor nearly so close as you thought it was." Baije came close and crouched, and his right eye flickered with white light then shone to project a holographic image of the near-miss at the hairpin turn. From above, Game could see there was more space than he'd estimated. Baije, unnecessarily, added, "He would have taken the lead had you not surprised him, and though it was a very close call and a daring move on his part, it was very clearly calculated. I performed the calculations myself after witnessing it. In fact, you were more likely to kill him with your reaction than-"

"Enough, Baije." Game walked right through the image, leaving his other boot behind, unzipped the front of his uniform and pulled his gloves off. Then, he picked up a small golden remote, a rod just wider than his closed hand and with a lipped dome on both ends. "Good evening, Unit Ninety-Five." A monitor whirred to life, a black holoscreen sprung up in front of him, and Game silently focused on channeling his login information through the chips in his fingertips. Baije blinked to turn the projector in his ocular implant off and rose up again.

"Carefully, Shiro, he was a bit rough on her towards the end of the night." Unit Forty-Six responded with an odd chirrup and withdrew the clamps it had been using to move the cycle, shifted from its hovering clamp form into its orb, then sprung one panel loose to release a set of wires. "Thank you." Baije patted the top of the floating white orb and set about interfacing the cycle with it. With the last wire attached, Unit Forty-Six squealed and began processing data with a tumultuous trill of low notes that Baije had deliberately programmed in as a processing indicator. Baije, secure that Unit Forty-Six was hard at work, turned back to Game. "I know you don't like this, but perhaps you need something that can give you an additional edge. Aspect, and all your sponsors, really, are always offering you upgrades and add-ons. Perhaps you could consider--"

"-- Becoming as jacked with inorganic parts as you?" Game sneered, and Baije dropped his shrugging hand. It was a low blow, but Game was in no mood to be diplomatic. "You are aware of my feelings."

"Of course, as much as you are of mine." Baije sighed, brushing a stray piece of espresso-dark hair from his left eye where it never quite stayed brushed back, then joined Game in the workspace. "I suppose, then, god forbid you just unwind to get this off your mind. There are a thousand parties in a fifty mile radius, celebrating your victory. I don't suppose-"

Just then, Game finished working through his firewalls to boot his personal interface, and the screen sprung to golden light then dazzled into the three-dimensional projection of the A.I. The Avatar of Unit Ninety-Five, an image of a teenaged boy with wild brown hair and princely clothes, beamed down from the hologram. "Hiya, Game!" His voice projected from the speakers, but his eyes, as golden as the background, focused on Game.

"Unit Ninety-Five, kindly bring up any information you have on the racer of cycle Five in the Eastern Title Division, Jyosha Capaco."

"Oh, Jyo!" Ninety-Five grinned, jumping out and spreading his hands, and the projection expanded across the entire cinderblock wall with a dozen thumbnails of videos and articles. "Oh, he's so cool! I watched the race on the net-"

"I told you not to go on the net unless I was operating you," Game scolded, and Baije tittered into his hand. Game filtered through the results on a heads-up interface visible only to his ocular sensors.

"Sorry, Game; I just wanna see you race. I saw him too, is all."

"Whatever." Game selected an article, and Ninety-Five's avatar minimized to a square in the corner and his image changed from a realistic young man to a cartoon monkey. His chipper voice narrated aloud as Game read.

"A newcomer to the Eastern Title Division, Jyosha Capaco rose from the bush leagues of the Division to the Title Division with surprising speed, making it through the pre-season qualifiers on his first entry." Ninety-Five pulled up a video on the page, showing Jyosha in basic gear, driving a simpler black cycle and careening around tight bends with ease. Game's clenched hand tightened on the controller as the camera followed Jyo from behind, but Ninety-Five continued. "His cycle is built for balance over speed, but his method of control somehow enables him to match higher speeds. Uhm, there's a bunch of boring stats, do you care?"

"No," Game ground out, glowering at the video feed. Ninety-Five's avatar image blinked black for a moment and the article scrolled down, then focused on a photograph of the racer. Game felt something clench in his throat, and clenched his teeth right back.

“Jyosha's style is loose and free-flowing and highly adaptive. He utilizes drift and has a natural talent for dodging his way through large groups. When asked to describe his techniques, however, he is either secretive or inarticulate-”

“Idiot,” Game grunted, and flexed his fingers on the controller. “How does he match my speed on that machine? How does he keep catching up to me?”

Ninety-Five kept reading, a little faster. “Uhm... Jyo has been described as having natural grace, despite his rough-edged persona. He's gotten a reputation as a playboy and a bad boy, and is well-known on the nightlife scene wherever the races take him... ah... it doesn't talk about his techniques.” The article vanished, and the avatar of Ninety-Five sprang back up, scratching his head. “Sorry, Game.”

“Check the rest.” Game brought the search back up with a flick of his index finger, and Baije patted Game's forearm.

“Really, I doubt you'll find much. He's very new, so there's no chance for extensive analysis of patterns. Besides that, racers are generally very secretive about their techniques, especially when they're successful.”

“I don't care. Anything that can tell me how the hell he's catching up with me!”

Ninety-Five's shoulders stiffened and his eyes flashed, then flickered, with a flurry of images. The search results dissolved to a blur of images and videos in forward motion. Jyo, smiling, grinning for interviewers and posing with his cycle. Game's chest tightened, and Ninety-Five shook his head. “M'sorry, Game.” All the images vanished at once, leaving him standing against the static windows of search results. “I can't even find a full list of his implants.” Game scoffed and squeezed the interface.

“Moron.” He set his hands on his hips, then set the interface down and switched to vocal control. “Ninety-Five, perform secondary searches. Even rumors would be welcome. Prepare a manifest for me. I'll review it in the morning.” He peeled the last of his vinyl jacket off and skulked towards the ladder to his loft. “Baije, do whatever you want. We can talk repairs and tune-up tomorrow. I'm going out.”

“Where to?”

“Out,” Game repeated sharply and scaled his ladder without looking back. Baije hummed.

“I suppose- ah, did you want to discuss what we'd do with your prize money from tonight?”

“Same as always.” Game peeled his uniform pants off and tugged on a loose pair of old denim pants. “Take what we need for repairs and supplies. Give yourself a 10% cut, nice bonus for you, good job keeping me from punching the red-haired asshole. Give the rest to... who'd I give it to last time?”

“Children's research hospital.”

“Homeless shelter, then.” He threw a tight black tee on, then grabbed his wallet. “I'm going for a drink. Don't wait up for me.” He clambered back down the ladder and went for one of his training cycles, which now made for a convenient on-the-town vehicle, and avoided Baije's line of sight as Ninety-Five continued to work.

Changing and getting the hell out was the best way he could think of to keep Baije from getting a closer study of him in his tight clothes. He couldn't keep looking at pictures of Jyo. He was infuriating, frustrating, an enigma all pinned up in a stupid smile and too goddamn good-looking for his own good.

He wanted to get that idiot off his ass. At the same time, he wanted that ass. Like hell that was going to happen, though. If he was going to make it through the rest of the racing season and the Grand Prix, he needed to get Jyosha Capaco out of his head and out of his goddamned way. And if that was going to happen, he needed to _think_.

* * *

The music throbbed hard and loud, shaking the floors and ceilings. Blue lights hummed and flashed from behind and under the bar, lighting the rows of glass bottles and all their translucent liquids in a dozen shades of cerulean and mist. The dance floor was a chaotic storm of yellows, red, and whites, punctuated with the silhouettes of writhing, undulating bodies grinding against one another and their own fantasies. It was impossible to hear anyone who wasn't shouting without tuning your aural implants directly to them, unless you were like the barman with direct vocal input. Game heard his voice in his ear like a whisper: “What'll it be, Mister Sanzang?”

Game had to half-shout to hear himself. “Green sake, cold. Chase it with a beer, whatever's house standard.” The barman nodded and fetched up bottles of melon liqueur and absinthe, and Game slumped into his seat and let his head fall. Bars and clubs were sensory overload for Game, too loud, too busy. People who partook in this sort of hobby usually modded themselves out to tolerate it as the scene went ever more extreme, buffering their own skulls from the inside to shield their brains from the thumping bass or tuning their eyes to perceive the lights so that they would be enticing rather than nauseating. For him, though, this kind of environment was just good for shutting himself in and closing himself off, even numbing himself. The sting of the noise and the lights, plus the burn of the alcohol, eventually numbed everything.

Game didn't mind being numb. Not when he had exhilaration to look forward to on the next night, with the next race. He came here for the numb. It was just unfortunate that this was how he liked to do it, because it was so easily interrupted.

“Well, what do we have here?” Hangers-on. Glorious. Game tipped his eyes up from the bar to see a skinny scrap of man with platinum blond hair that was obviously implanted, moonlight skin, and a snakelike grin. “Ain't you Game Sanzang? Gracious, you're even more good-looking in person.” He slid into the seat alongside him, and Game spotted behind him a large man with synthetic eyes that glowed yellow in the dim light, muscles that were too big to be implants, and dark hair in thick dreadlocks. Bodyguard. Whoever this was would cause him trouble if he were rude. Game curled his upper lip, but flashed the young man a snatch of eye contact.

“I don't think we've met.” The barman set down a bell-shaped glass of liquor that was faintly mint-green, and Game took a gulp. Game's fanboy giggled.

“We ain't, no, but I'm a fan. I'd think you'd let yourself be the center of attention at one of your victory parties, but from all the tabloids, you're a little shy for that.” Fanboy flapped a hand. “I don't push. I just wanted to give you some kudos for your brilliant work tonight!” He glanced behind him. “Nen, you saw him, wasn't he great?” The bodyguard nodded. Fanboy spun back on the slick barstool, the synth-leather of his pants squeaking against the plastic fabric. “Nen don't know much for racing, but he watched with me. That last curve, though!” Fanboy whistled, imitating the near-miss with his hands. Game took another swallow of his drink. He could feel the tingle in his ears and eyes- there were nanites in the sake, damn it. He hated when he got his implants drunk. Fanboy blathered on. “That Jyosha, he's a wild horse, or he looks like one. He ain't as much of a thrill as you, 'least not in my opinion. It's just such a pain he's always a few seconds behind you, but you're always a few seconds ahead. Shame it looks like he's gonna make the Grand Prix with you. His time's too good.”

Game scoffed. He agreed with Fanboy on the surface, but he didn't like what he was hearing. “You think I'm more... thrilling?”

“Well, your humanity's exciting.” Fanboy turned his arms over a few times, revealing subtle implants catching transient, colored light along his veins. “I'll be the first person to admit I'm decked out to the max, but that you don't, and oh, darlin', that's wild!” Game's cheeks burned. "Your times are amazin'. You rank over everyone but the leader in the West Division!" Game sniffed down into his drink, then took another long drink. He needed it if he was going to make it through the conversation, or assault on his aural receptors, whatever one might call it.

"You say it's his... control."

"It is, yes. I don't know how he's specced, but he's like a paper airplane on currents. It's just uncanny!" Fanboy pouted, folding his arms. "I can't believe he's gotten to be so popular! Not with you--” His eyes sparked with light, dancing on Game again-- “So wild, it's like you don't care if you just plain kill a man, it's all about making your time!”

Game sneered at his drink, then drained it, smacking his lips at the little sting as it went down. Fanboy was tapdancing on his last nerve, and the numb just wasn't coming. Ignoring the Fanboy's prattle, he tossed his head back and looked everywhere but at his unwelcome companion.

That's when he caught a glimpse of it: bright red against white strobes and black light. Jyo, weaving through the crowd, sibylline and sly, silken slides through the twist of turning forms. _That bastard_. Game picked up his beer bottle. “It's been a pleasure talking. I think I see someone I know.” He dodged away from Fanboy and his stoic bodyguard, out of the relative quiet of the bar and into the madness of the dance floor.

Game could follow Jyo through the crowded floor by glimpses and slivers of red hair (which, his unhelpful mind reminded him, smelled like rose hips and was too beautiful to be real) and tanned skin (that was probably as smooth as every move Game watched him make) and Game only lost him between seconds when he took a swallow of his beer. His head was getting fuzzy, but his body was thrumming with intent-- finish what he started earlier.

Jyo found his way to a spiral staircase, up into the higher chambers of the club, and Game's latent anger morphed into curiosity. He could now see Jyo wasn't alone; the dubious, gangster-looking manager who'd been with him at the track was at his side, and as Game tiptoed up the stairs behind them, he could hear the guy muttering in persuasive tones, “This could be a good deal, just hear him out.”

“I don't get why we're meeting here,” Jyo muttered back, shaking his head, sending his hair to shiver and shimmer in the dim lights of the upper hallway. The manager shrugged.

“Our, eh, benefactor thought it'd be best to meet in public, somewhere you wouldn't look out of place, and let's face it, you're nothing if not in place here.” The manager slung an arm around his shoulder, but Jyo shook him off.

“Look, Li, I get you just wanna do what's best for both of us, but I'm doing real good in the rankings! You saw me tonight, dude, I was on fire!” Jyo gestured with both hands in the air, and Game could fucking _hear_  the stupid, boyish grin. “I dunno if I can take the Prix this year, but I could hit second or third. And hey, maybe next time it comes around, I'll--”

“I don't think we're talking about winnin' tonight, bro.” Li jostled Jyo with his elbow and Jyo's shoulders drooped. He shoved both hands into the back pockets of his sinfully tight slacks. Game halted a step when their conversation went quiet, letting them get a little distance, his fingers wrapped tight around his bottle to keep from making any unintentional movements. They approached a door covered by red velvet curtains, and Li seized Jyo's wrist. “Look, the fella contacted me and promised me he'd get you second in the Prix, and for your first year racing? That's real good. That's beyond real good. Plus, we do this, could even get us some hotter arrangements in the future.”

“I dunno.” Jyo shook his head but ducked under the velvet curtain. He seemed to grimace as it brushed over his back. Game slid in close, thankful he was wearing lightweight shoes, and pinned his back to the wall just outside of the private room. He glimpsed in around the edge of the curtain to see the room's occupants: Jyo, Li, and three men Game didn't know. Two were heavyset-- more bodyguard-looking types, one with muscular implants, one with metal prosthetic arms marked with black stars on the elbows. The last, though, was a pale, slimy looking man who was somehow familiar, with slicked-back black hair and oblong glasses perched on the edge of his nose. The men slid into place onto a circular bench around a table under a pendant lamp. There were already glasses and bottles on the table, and the man in the glasses pushed a slim brown bottle to Jyo.

“For the man of the hour. This is your favorite, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” Jyo took it with a bounce of his eyebrows, then popped the cap on the edge of the table. “Thanks. So, listen, uh-”

“Jyo,” Li warned. “Let's let our guest talk first.” Li shifted back, clearly at ease. “Why don't you introduce yourself, Mister, ah...”

“Doctor,” the man with the slicked-back hair and glasses finished, his lips sliding into a smirk. “Let's just leave it at that, yes? I think yes.” He reached into his white jacket, drew out a thin metal pipe and took a drag. There was a beat of silence, until Li cleared his throat.

“So, Doc, what'd ya call us here for?”

“Ah, well, let's begin by ensuring there are no wandering ears.” The Doctor pulled a small black bar from his coat, this one about the size of Unit Ninety-Five's tactile interface, but with a trigger on the end of it indicated by a red light. The Doctor touched his thumb to the space with the light, and Game's world rocked.

His vision went black and scrambled, his aurals buzzed with shrill feedback, and even the implants in his fingertips burned, then went numb. Game somehow steadied himself on the wall and leaned off of it to catch his breath. When he was finally able to hear again, at first only gibberish, then the Doctor's laughing voice.

“ ... ways fun to see whose implants are linked to the voluntary and involuntary nervous systems. Are you quite well, Jyosha?”

Jyosha was swearing in a language Game didn't recognize, until something clicked in his own mind and he was suddenly making perfect sense: “-- almighty makers, what the fuck even was that?!”

“That's what we're here to talk about, if I'm being frank. Anyone with implants of any lesser quality will probably be running for their techs by now, so we can openly talk about the who.” The Doctor kicked his feet onto the table to a grimace from Jyo, nonchalance from Li, and no reaction from either bodyguard. "I've watched you, Jyo. You're fascinating to watch, so who wouldn't? Plus, you got that newcomer enigma thing going on. I like it. Crazy, isn't it, you come in on a Prix year, and all the bookmakers swear you're bound for the top five. You're so good the judges are debating whether they can let you in on your first season totals instead of averages like they're doing everyone else, but let me tell you, there's nothing in the rules that says you won't. The first-year newbie screaming his way into the Prix. How's that sound?"

"Unbelievable." Jyo sounded a little wary.

"And of course, the endorsements are pouring in." The Doctor poured something golden into his glass from a flask. "You could upgrade all your parts gratis based on the offers you've gotten, all for a few square feet of space on your bike or your uniform. You're on posters and commercials and in all the tabloids, who wanna know who you're fucking this week or where you went drinking last night." The Doctor snickered, and Jyo cracked a grin.

"Hey, I'm young, I gotta have fun."

Game tried not to roll his eyes, tried consciously not to move or breathe. The Doctor, meanwhile, took a datapad, one a little bigger than his spread hand and no thicker than two stacked coins, from his pocket and tapped it to display Jo's full profile in hologram. "Jyosha Capaco, that's you. Nobody knows much about you, and you seem to like it that way. After tonight's race, you're firmly in second for the Eastern Title Division, and, like I said, headed for the Prix." He jostled Jyo's arm and winked, then spun his focus right back to the datapad. "Of course, looking at the numbers, your actual odds in the Prix are middling at best." The Doctor typed a few things, clicking his tongue as the datapad generated charts, graphs, and simulations so quickly Game couldn't take them all in. "North and South are both running pretty strong, but the West Division's lead's bound to take it this year, and you'll probably get knocked of the Winner's circle altogether by your..." The Doctor paused, deliberately fixing Jyo with a piercing grin. "Bumper buddy."

He touched a few buttons, and Game saw his own image and data spring up. "Genmu Sanzang, also called 'Game' or 'The Monk.' Best known for his limited use of cybernetic enhancements and his little sob story. Protégé of fan favorite Canard Sanzang, self-given nickname 'Card,' who died in an unfortunate accident about ten years ago." The Doctor sat back in his seat and smirked. "Supposedly." Game's blood boiled, but he swallowed it down as the Doctor snickered. "So, the poor, traumatized little tart walks right onto his dead Daddy's bike the day he's old enough to ride it and gradually came to dominate the Eastern Title Division."

"What's it got to do with me?" Jyo asked.

“He's a thorn in your ass, ain't he?” The Doctor set the pad down and swiped something, and Game saw the now-familiar video of him nearly running Jyo off the road. Every time he saw it, it looked less and less like Jyo's fault. He shifted closer against the curtain, watching Jyo's face catching the colored light from the display and his eyes, narrowed to nearly a squint. The video ended and Jyo took another swallow of his beer and shrugged.

"Look, Sanzang's a pain and a pissant, but it's just a little unfriendly competition. He's a good racer and all, so I don't mind taking second. 'Sides, it's fun getting a rise out of him."

"He's the pain and pissant that's gonna push you out of the top five, Jyosha." The Doctor put his pad away and leaned forward. "He's a thorn in my ass, too. See, my employer's got, let's say, a vested interest in the leader of the Western Division winning the Prix. Oddsmakers are saying it's fifty-fifty, Game or Mr. Prince. Card Sanzang never won the Prix, so you just know Game's gunning for it like some sorta twisted revenge, and this is his first chance, too. Meanwhile, Mr. Prince has quite a few advertising campaigns hinging on his winning the race, and if I might be honest, my employer's profit margin means a whole lot more to me than Sanzang's pride." The Doctor leaned close, his vapor pipe hanging at the corner of his lips. "And then there's you, doomed to get knocked back and out of the top three by Game and the rest of the interdivision leaderboard."

"Why's that? What makes you think I can't take that lousy grouch?"

"You haven't done it once." The Doctor blew smoke in a stream straight upward.

"What is it you're askin' us, Doc?" Li interjected, as Jyo tensed at his side.

"There's a good question." The Doctor took another puff, then tipped the edge of his glasses down to look at Jyo and Li over the rims. "There's nobody in the leagues who can tail Game quite like you do, and we kind of need that. My employer wants Game to have an... accident. My employer wants you to make sure he wrecks."

Jyo's eyes widened, and Game felt his gut turn to an iron block and push his drink right up into his throat. He swallowed it as Li pushed on, "Yeah, but what's that mean?"

"Remember this little baby?" The Doctor held up the black bar that had set all of their implants haywire. "Nice little disruptor. It'll make all nonessential implants and enhancements in range stop working, and as you both can attest, that throws you right the fuck off for a good, oh, five, ten seconds while they all reboot. In a race where you're moving two miles a minute, five to ten seconds can be a long time to be disoriented. Sanzang doesn't use a lot of implants, but he's still got some, so you know this'll fuck him up real good. Trouble is, you need to be close. It's got about a three-meter radius. That's where you come in, Jyosha."

Game put his ear as close as he could to the door without moving the curtain, stilling the churning in his stomach with a clenched fist as the Doctor went on. "During the final round of the Prix, we'll equip you with a suit that will protect you from the disruptor's effects. You get close to Sanzang, you push the button, Sanzang runs off the road, and we make sure you zip cool and clean into a silver medal. You will, of course, be generously recompensed for your services. I'm not even talking the prize money, either. I'll happily arrange a 100,000 yuan wire to your account upon signing my contract, and you'll see another 500,000 yuan spring up upon completion. What's that second prize, anyway? 300,000 yuan, was it?" The Doctor whistled. "Think of the lavish party you could throw for all your lady friends at your silver medal award ceremony. You wouldn't even make a dent in it."

Jyo glanced to Li, clearly apprising his expression, as Li took it all in with a broad grin.

The Doctor spread his hands in a shrug. "Then there's the alternative. You hit fifth, you take your fifty thou and go home, and hope your funds hold out until next season. Wherever you come from, there wasn't any money in it, and my sources tell me you owe your bike company final payment on your precious cycle on completion of the season. And who knows what fifth might do to your rep? Sure, you're better than ninety-seven percent of the rest of the Division, but there'll always be that stigma of going to the Prix and losing to your rival. Sponsors might see that, plus your growing bad rep, and close their pocketbooks faster than you can say 'almost won.'" The Doctor leaned in again, lacing his fingers with a confident smirk. "So, Mr. Capaco, what's it going to be?"

Jyo sealed his lips, lowering his head, then rubbed his scalp. "I... dude, you can't ask me to make big decisions like this after a couple." He shook his empty bottle with a sheepish grin. "How 'bout you give me a night to think it over?"

"Jyo!" Li tugged his hair, then pushed him back into the seat. "What my guy here meant to say was-"

"I heard him clearly." The Doctor took a datachip in a thumb-sized case and set it down in front of Jyo's hand. "I wasn't expecting an answer tonight; it's a very big decision. We're playing with fire here. Very fuzzy gray area in the Division rules." Big black X, Game thought, fire burning in his clenched hands. "All I'm saying is, word gets out, there'll be lots of trouble all over, for you... well, mostly for you. You think it over. You want in, just plug the chip in on your computer and sign the contract. It's programmed to alert me if you interact with it, so I'll know, and I'll give your manager another ring." The Doctor held out his hand and Jyo awkwardly shook it. Then, the Doctor and his bodyguards stood.

Game, mind racing, slipped away from the door and ducked into the empty private room next to theirs, pinning his back flat to the wall as he heard the three men pass, the Doctor humming under his breath. He tried to flatten himself, his body just another sheet of metal on the wall, and listened as Jyo and Li talked. Argued, from their rushed, hushed tones, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. Then, Game saw Li storm past, hands thrown into fists at his sides, and there was silence from the next room. No more footsteps.

Sounded like Jyo was alone.

Game sneaked back out and peered back through the edge of the curtain. Yes, Jyo was sitting alone, slumped in the middle of the half-moon bench, staring down at his bottle with a grimace disfiguring his face, setting the angles all wrong and making him look more like a lonesome dog than the long-legged king he was when he stood on the track. Good. Fuck him.

Game spun into the doorway and threw the curtain shut behind him (and why the fuck did it have to be so hard to slam a curtain?) Jyo's head sprang up and his eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed into something between anger and curiosity. "Game Sanzang? The fuck are you-?"

"Shut up." Game vaulted the table and landed with his knee across Jyo's thighs, pinning him to the seat back. Jyo's brow raised with shock, but he didn't react fast enough to struggle, not even as Game wrapped his fingers around Jyo's throat, a scathing glare searing across Jyo's brow that would surely blister that pretty face. "You think you're going to kill me?"

"No!" Jyo shook his head, his voice strained and wheezing. Game could feel his Adam's apple struggling against the join of his thumb and palm. "Shit! How much of that did you hear?"

"Every word," Game ground out, menace in every syllable. "That man offered you a substantial sum of money to kill me, and you were going to take it. Do you hate me that much?! Is that why you tried to kill me today?!"

"Shit, no, you got it- gek!" Jyo choked and launched his leg up, pushing Game back, but Game just tugged his throat. The table got shoved back and toppled over, and Game and Jyo tumbled to the ground, Jyo flat on his back and Game pinning him by his neck, his legs straddling Jyo's hips. Jyo grabbed Game by the ribcage, his elbows pinned and limiting him from anything else at this angle, his thumbs digging in. Game winced, but pressed in harder around Jyo's neck.

"What's your goddamn game? You that fucking mad you can't beat me? Why the fuck would you-"

"My manager's a fuck! He set this up, not me!" Jyo heaved, and gave up trying to tickle Game off and moved to pry at his fingers. "You damn near killed me today, but I wouldn't pull that shit on you!" Game released Jyo's neck, and Jyo drank air like he'd been drowning.

"Then what the fuck is your deal?" Game pounded a fist next to Jyo's head. "You tail my ass whenever we're on the same track, you always give me shit--"

"'Cause you react and it's funny! Ya think you'd be happy someone was trying to pull the stick out of your ass!" Jyo suddenly came up short again, eyes wide, then squinted shut. "Oh, shit, oh, fuck..." Game didn't know what he was reacting to, until he tried to sit back and realized that his pants were far too tight at the zipper. Jyo scrubbed his eyes with his fingers. "It's the other fucking way around, isn't it? Is that how this's gonna go?"

Shit. He was right on top of Jyo, their hips meeting but for the merciful intervention of their pants, Jyo's shirt was tight and showed off every line and angle that had taunted Game every time he'd seen the stupid, beautiful moron on his cycle, and some stupid part of him that never listened to reason had reacted. "This has nothing to do with my latent attraction to you," Game hissed, without realizing that he'd admitted it out loud. He'd blame the sake when he remembered it later. "This has everything to do with the fact that we keep trying to kill-"

Long, limber arms swept up around Game's head, and Jyo pulled him down and close into a bruising, crushing kiss. Game sputtered resistance, but Jyo's mouth was warm and wet and welcoming, and before he knew it, his lips and tongue were responding. After half a minute or so, Jyo broke the contact to whisper against his ear. "You, too, huh?" His voice was colored with wonder. Then he surged up into another round of kisses.

Jyo kept Game’s mouth busy and his head dizzy, leaving him gasping for air when Jyo released him. "C'mon, Game," he crooned into his ear. "We're gonna do this, how you wanna do this?"

Game panted, disoriented by Jyo's myriad attentions, but Jyo, the fucking prick, didn't wait for an answer. (All he would have gotten was a “Fuck you, fuck me,” anyway.) He snaked a hand down and popped the button on Game's pants, then dragged the zipper of his fly down. His hand was warm against the hot skin of his prick, and he stroked it as he pulled it out. It throbbed, and it _hurt_. “There.” Jyo pulled his button and zipper loose, then wiggled them just below the hipline to free his cock. Jyo gathered both of their dicks together and pumped, setting a firm, driving rhythm of stimulation. Jyo's pulse point throbbed in the big vein of his cock and in his thumb, and Game could feel every heartbeat. It sent shudders through him, even as Jyo chuckled against his shoulder. “For such a big prick as you are, I think you might need to jack off a little more. You're gonna come just like this, ain't you?”

“Not fucking likely,” Game snarled back, imitating bravado while slipping a hand between them to grip the base of his dick and squeeze back the oncoming orgasm. Jyo cackled.

“Oh, you cheating bastard.” Jyo whipped his hair around. “You always come first, you little shit, why change that now?” With that, he wrapped a panel of that impossibly red hair around Game's prick and stroked him through it.

Game's eyes rolled back in his head from the sensation. His hair was just as soft as it looked, silky, still perfumed as if freshly washed, and the way Jyo rippled his hand let him feel every inch of sensation. He gave him three good pulls, then tossed his hair away and continued the motion with just his fingers and let Game enjoy the scent of his hair slung over his shoulders. He pulsed his hand through over and over, drawing helpless noises from Game. Jyo responded with a content hum, smirking smugly as each pull made Game ever more boneless. “You wanna come like this, or you got somethin' better in mind?” He squeezed, hard and Game's vision snowed for a second from the rush. “I asked you a question, Game. How you wanna do this?”

Game managed a growl and seized Jyo's hand. “Hold fucking still,” he rasped, and pushed Jyo back. Jyo's back hit the bench, but Game seized his shoulder. “Turn around. Grab the bench. Pull your pants down. Get on your knees.”

“In that order, Mister Monk?” Jyo waggled an eyebrow; daring for someone being pinned down by an angry and aroused Game.

“Just fucking do it!” Game sat back, folding his arms and setting his lips thin. If his dick weren’t blue with need, he would probably have looked pretty goddamned intimidating. As it stood, Jyo only chuckled and obliged, languidly shucking his jeans and leaving them pooled around his knees, making himself comfortable against the bench. He'd left his shirt on, but it was skintight so that Game could see every detail in his musclebound back, the narrow ridge of his spine. He ran a finger down it, and Jyo shivered uncontrollably and swore under his breath, pounding his fist into the vinyl.

That was unexpected.

“You don't like when things touch your back, do you?” Game smirked, because he'd found a weakness and he was about to ram right into it. Jyo whimpered aloud, but spoke with conviction.

“Have fun, asshole. You wanna make me scream,” he wheezed out a chuckle, “you got an opening now.”

Game lined his hips up with Jyo's and braced himself, but rather than shoving in, he aimed lower. With the first thrust he sent his cock sliding under Jyo’s and against his shaft. Game rocked there while rubbing deep circles into Jyo's back with his thumb. Jyo swore and shouted, trying and failing to muffle himself into his arms. Game raked his fingernails down his back, and Jyo sobbed aloud. Oh, this was fun. He had a good way to make the annoying bastard squirm.

He nestled his cock right up against Jyo's and bucked a few times, then backed up and bumped the head against Jyo's entrance, but Jyo grasped desperately back and grabbed Game's thigh. “Lube, you fuck. Ain't you ever done this before?”

Game wasn't about to answer that. Instead, he scraped his fingers down Jyo's back and leaned down close to his ear. “You have anything?”

Jyo scrabbled one shaking hand down to his pants pocket and pulled out a little black tube. “Never know when you might need some, eh?” He winked over his shoulder and pushed it into Game's hand, then braced on the bench again. “I'm ready. Set me up and knock me down.”

Game opened the tube with one hand and gave it a squeeze to find it full of something slick that smelled too sweet. He sneered but smeared it all over his dick, then pushed it into Jyo's asshole with a few short, sharp jolts, driving the head in deep. Jyo moaned but his body opened to accept him.

Fuck, it was hot. Fuck, it was tight, too tight. Game drew out a little and poured more lube onto his shaft, then pushed back in with a wet noise and an answering groan from Jyo. His dick pulsed, and he thought for sure he'd spill. Instead, he grabbed the base of his dick again and just _breathed_.

He could still smell Jyo's hair where it spilled down his black-clad back. Fucking glorious. He buried his nose in it, took a deep breath, then started fucking into Jyo again in short, careful rocks. Jyo grunted at every thrust, and Game could feel the gooseflesh in his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. He ignored it in favor of burying his nose against Jyo's scalp. Jyo arched backwards, pushing into Game's thrusts, fervently whispering encouragement and appreciation.

“That's right, use that fat cock, you son of a bitch, you feel so fucking good, don't you dare sto-o-op...” He half-moaned, half sobbed as Game pulled all the way out, slumping as he mourned the loss. “Thought I fuckin' told you--”

Game pushed back in all at once and Jyo pounded a hand down into the seat, screaming vulgarities and sobbing. “Fuck! Shit! Touch me, I need to come or I'll fucking die!”

“Don't tempt me,” Game growled, but wrapped a hand around Jyo's dick. Jyo was leaking precome, his cock burning hot like fever.

“That's it,” Jyo beckoned. “Give it to me. It'll feel so fucking good... !” He broke off with a cry as Game squeezed.

Game thrust in time with his strokes, once, twice, three times and Jyo came with a shout. His ass tightened and pulsed, and Game's world narrowed to nothing but the spotlight and Jyo's heat, and he lost himself in it.

He wasn't sure if sensory overload had knocked out his implants, but it took a few minutes for the world to come back into focus, and it was to Jyo slapping his thigh.

“Hey, you can pull out, now. You're goin' soft, and you're gonna wanna clean up before we get stuck together.”

Game collapsed onto his knees but managed a weak chuckle as he pulled back, panting, dick still dripping as Jyo carefully lowered himself into a stretch. “First and last time I let you come in first.”

Jyo started to laugh. He swiped the come off of the vinyl seat and kept laughing. Game's mind settled from the adrenaline high, and his shoulders sank as pure exhaustion set in, the satiation and relaxation all melding into a weird, disconnected peace that felt familiar in the vagaries in his mind. Still, Jyo managed to stop laughing. He sat upright and twisted around to face Game.

"Now look," Jyo panted, as he smeared his hand onto the curtain with a wince. "Would a guy who was going to kill you do that?"

Then, the grimace was gone, and Jyo was laughing hard and deep again, the sound coming straight from the base of his soul. Game nodded his head, his eyes closing unbidden, until Jyo patted his cheeks a few times. "Hey, hey, stay with me. You can't fall asleep here."

Game regained sense of mind enough to brush Jyo's hand away. "Don't touch me."

Jyo shook his wrist off and chuckled. "Little late for that, ain't it?"

Jyo got Game onto the bench and cleaned his chest and legs with a damp towel, then gave him his clothes. He sat back on his knees, pulling his vapor pipe from his discarded overshirt and taking a few puffs, as Game languidly tugged his belt back into place. He tipped his eyes up to see Jyo holding the vapor pipe out to him. He accepted it, and Jyo nodded. “Just suck and inhale, hold it, then take the pipe out and exhale.” Game followed, his fingers shaking a little as he took the hit and felt a wave of relaxation from his head to the tips of his fingers. Jyo grinned, then took the pipe back, and Game sagged forward. "Look, now we're both calmed down a little, I'm thinking we can maybe have an actual conversation about what's going on. I don't like what happened before you came in here, and I know you don't, either. But I also think you're falling asleep where you're sitting, and we're not getting anything done that way. I guess what I'm saying is, can I give you a ride or something?"

"I brought a bike," Game mumbled, then yawned. “I can get back.” Jyo shook his head.

"You'll hit a wall like this. I came with my manager, but I'm guessing he took our car, so I was just gonna get a cab. Give me your keys."

Game was too spent to resist Jyo's hand in his pocket, nor the gentle caress he awarded his thigh upon finding the keyring there. Then, Jyo wound Game's arm around his shoulders and carefully carried him to the back stairs and down. The party still raged on the main dance floor, and Game could feel the walls of the back hallways shake with every reverberation of bass and percussion. Jyo didn't halt, steadfast, and got Game to his bike and loaded him on the back of the seat, then climbed in front of him. "Hold onto my waist, got it? Just tell me where we're going, and I'll get you there." Jyo waited for Game to fasten his hands around him, then cranked the bike into gear.

Jyo's swift movements on the track translated into the same silken movement on the street, but restrained by speed limits. He still slipped and slid through traffic without jostling Game, all the way to the unassuming two-story building that housed his garage. He only nudged Game as they got to the door, and he used his leg as a kickstand while he roused him. "Hey, how do you open this?" Game snaked an arm forward to tap the entry code, and the garage door slid up. "That'll do." Jyo secured his arm back around his waist and puttered in, and Game closed his eyes again.

If he'd been any more awake, he'd have been pissed off at having to depend on Jyo's support, but after so long holding himself up, it was strangely welcome to have Jyo scoop him up into his arms and carry him in. He heard Jyo calling out and the electric hum of the lights coming on, but knew no more.

 


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jyo and Game cut a deal to save Game's life and Jyo's career, but Game's enemies are riding their heels.

**3:**

" ... that's the story." Game opened his eyes to a deep voice from below, rubbed his eyes to awareness, then blinked to clear his vision. He had somehow ended up in his loft, in his bed, stripped naked and covered with a sheet, and he was hearing a voice he knew but didn't want to hear from below. He jumped up, throwing the sheet off, and leaned over the railing to peer down into the kitchen Baije had put together in the corner of the garage. Sure enough, Jyosha was there, dressed in Baije's bathrobe and with all that hair wrapped up in a towel in a pile on his head, drinking coffee out of Game's favorite mug (the big black one). He was slung all over one of Baije's clean, elegant vinyl chairs, kicking his bare feet onto the simple, usually spotless table. Baije nodded sympathetically, without a single complaint over Jyo violating every one of his mothering chides.

"I'm glad you've turned out an upstanding fellow, Mr. Capaco."

"Jyo's fine. And, uh, thanks." Jyo took another swig from the mug, then shivered it all the way down. "Damn, that's good."

Baije giggled, clearly pleased with Jyo's appreciation. "I tend to work long nights, so I purchase better coffee."

"Hey." Game pounded his fist on the railing, then swung down to the ladder. Jyo immediately hunched and hid a snicker into his palm, and Baije got up from his chair as Game approached. "The hell is he still doing here?"

"He was kind enough to bring you home after you exhausted yourself. The least I could do was let him stay for breakfast and what has turned out to be scintillating conversation regarding a plot to cause your death." Baije's smile didn't fall out of place for a moment. "Now, if you'll put some pants on, I'll pour you some coffee and we can all continue this conversation together."

It was then that Game remembered his clothes had been removed, and Jyo was guffawing into his folded arms.

Baije made certain to give Game their second-biggest mug and filled it to the brim, and Game reactivated Unit Ninety-Five, one hand holding the controller directly out in front of him, as he drained the coffee dry. Jyo had pulled off the bathrobe and put on his clothes from the night before, smelling like the spring rain deodorant Baije used in their sanitizer. He stood back, right at the seam where the clean white walls of the kitchen met the gray cinderblock of the garage wall, and confirmed the story he'd told Baije: "For whatever reason, he's fixing the Prix for Mr. Prince out west. I've seen Mr. Prince race, but I ain't ever seen this Doctor guy before in my life."

"I know damn near everyone in this game, and neither have I." Game finished his mug with his free hand and put it down next to Ninety-Five's box, and Baije promptly picked it up.

"Do either of you have an image?" Jyo and Game both shook 'no,' and Baije hummed and dropped his gaze as he refilled the mug from the pot. "Then I'm afraid I won't be able to help you in that regard."

"I'd know him if I saw him." Jyo folded his arms and rocked back in his seat, staring at his empty plate. "Li might know his name, but I ain't in a mood to talk to Li."

"I remember your slimesack manager asking his name. I doubt he knows either."

"Yeah, well if your lame-ass interface would boot up, we might be getting somewhere." Jyo rocked the chair down to the floor and gestured to Game, who still held the controller out. "Seriously, how many firewalls you got on that thing?"

"Enough." Game's ears burned and he pulled his eyebrows down into a scowl.

"He's rather protective of the unit," Baije explained, and Jyo rolled his eyes.

"S'just a computer. You got it backed up, right? Got more security in here, too, I bet." Jyo gestured to the black security boxes on the garage doors and rocked his chair back again. "Someone tries to take it outta here without the security code -- don't those wipe the memory?"

"Game's refused to do that with Unit Ninety-Five," Baije volunteered.

"Why not?"

Just then, Ninety-Five's avatar appeared. He grinned. "Hey, you got company!" Then he gasped, clasping his hands, his voice high and taut with excitement. "It's Jyo! You brought Jyo home!"

Jyo lost his balance and fell flat onto his back, then spun around and staggered to his feet. "Holy shit. I didn't identify myself."

Baije giggled again. "He gets bored while we're gone, so he watches your races on the net."

Jyo's eyebrows rose, his shoulders tensing, and he squeaked out, "He goes on the net on his own?!"

A printer nested in the desk suddenly spat out a reel of paper as Ninety-Five darted to the foreground of his virtual environment and knelt down close to Jyo. His feet were still in midair where his image was generated but the pixels of his nose just touching Jyo's forehead. "Hey! Hey, Jyo! Can you autograph that for me? Game, make him do it, and then hang it up over there-" He pointed to the kitchen cabinet hanging under Game's loft- "Right there, where I can see it! Please?"

"Ninety-Five, don't harangue him." Game said, his arms folded. Jyo was slackjawed, but gingerly took the paper from the desk.

"No, no, I mean... I'll sign an autograph for your... computer." He scribbled a message in script Game couldn't read, then held it up with a grin. "Always happy to meet a... fan."

"Ninety-Five," Game interrupted quietly, barely concealing menace with clipped tones. "Pull up a list of Mr. Prince's sponsors."

"Mr. Prince?" Ninety-Five cocked his head as the page results flew up in myriad thumbnails behind him. "From the Western Title Division?"

"That's the one." Game set his hands on his hips, tapping the end of the control wand with his index finger, and Ninety-Five hemmed and hawed and spun round in place to look at all the thumbnails.

"Gimme a sec, okay?" He started tapping the thumbnails one by one and screening through them at rapid speed, and Baije sidled up to Jyo.

"I'm not entirely sure where Game picked Unit Ninety-Five up, only that he came with the designation and his programming and wiring appears normal." Jyo nodded, and Baije took a half-step back while nudging Jyo to stand nearer to Game with his fingertips. "However, he has a strong and unique personality and impressive independent functionality. He's the closest thing to genuine artificial intelligence I've ever seen."

"No shit." Jyo snatched his vapor pipe from the table and lit it, to a frown from Baije.

"I wish you wouldn't." He edged away to stand at Game's side, eyes tilted up at the screen.

Ninety-Five, meanwhile, dismissed windows with a wave of his hand as Game tapped his foot. "Ninety-Five, quit fooling around."

"Sorry, just filtering through all the reports on his race last night." Ninety-Five turned over his shoulder with a grin. "Did you guys see his time? He's cracking Western records left and right!" Game scoffed, but Ninety-Five pulled up a page and minimized to a corner. "Here it is!"

The article with Mr. Prince's information sprung up, in a similar format to the one Game had seen used for Jyo the night before. Mr. Prince's profile photograph loaded next to a list of his stats and information.

Ninety-Five and Game both started to read: "Mr. Prince has been a fixture in leaderboards in the Western Title Division for two years." Ninety-Five stopped when Game held a hand up and scrolled the page down, muttering snatches and phrases aloud as he ran his eyes over the article. "Ended his first season in third... Has not divulged a personal name other than a pseudonym... Presently carrying the league, with wins in all but two races thus far this season..." He swiped past the statistics to the bottom of the page and a long stretch of logos. "His biggest sponsors are the makers of his major implants, Ox Legacy Inc., and... Usa-Gi Robotics."

"Usa-Gi?" Baije touched his chin, eyebrows raising. "They're chiefly military tech, aren't they?"

"Uh-huh," Ninety-Five answered. He sprung up, then dragged a new window with Usa-Gi Robotics' homepage on it, the black background swallowing the white of the article, and immediately minimized again. "Drones, auto-tanks, smart body armor, you name it."

Game ran his eyes along the steel-colored navigation bar, and reached up to select a page on "Future Projects."

"Security for embassies, anti-missile programs in France... personnel." Baije, Jyo, and Game all scanned the text as the page loaded, and Jyo read aloud:

"Usa-Gi has always been on the forefront of improving our national defense equipment. Within the next five years, we will be rolling out improvements to a factor in our national defense that has previously only been glanced over. The improvement and perfection of our military personnel..." Jyo stopped there and whirled to the other two. "Sacred shit, they are developing implants. Improving people, ain't that what implants are?"

"I'm not even sure it's just implants." Baije pressed his hand over his mouth. "The word 'perfection:' something about that stands out to me. It sounds almost sinister. And a military contractor would certainly have the kind of money to spare with which to purchase Jyo, since they'll easily collect if their investment is successful. But why would... Oh, but isn't that obvious." Baije snapped his hands down to his sides. "Even they have investors. Demonstrate your product by using a winner in one of the more popular sports and entertainment industries in the country as a test subject or guinea pig, and private or government investors will surely lap it up like a cat with cream. Even worse, the secrecy of the demonstration indicates that there could be investors involved that may want the technology for nefarious purposes--!"

"Calm down." Game shot a glare at Baije. "You're jumping to conclusions. We don't even know what this technology is."

"They're military." Baije's fingers trembled, his shoulders back. "What possible use could any military contractor have for-"

"It could be as benign as advanced ocular implants. We don't know. That isn't the point." Game marched to stand in front of the screen. "What we do know is that someone, either these people or some other sponsor of Mr. Prince, wants to make sure I don't beat their prized big shit in the Prix. If Jyo doesn't accept, then someone else surely will, and I won't have the courtesy of getting a warning from the next guy."

"So, I guess what we need to do is make sure you can win the Prix," Jyo volunteered, hand up. Game sneered.

"I don't give one microgram of a shit whether or not I win. My only goals are to beat your time--" He pointed at Jyo, who rolled his eyes-- "and, at this point, survive."

"Listen, dickwhistler." Jyo advanced, his hair swaying and glinting, and Game suddenly felt the walls all too close. Unit Ninety-Five, hovering above him, giggled from his minimize screen. "As a courtesy, I'll step aside this time. I want you to win. I'll help."

Baije gasped. "Mr. Capaco--"

"But I don't do favors. I need something back." He turned to Baije. "Jyo. Just call me Jyo. Mr. Zhu, I wanna dump my manager, and I see how good a job you do with that guy. He's a prick, but you take real good care of him. I ain't sayin' drop the zero--" He gave a shake of his head towards Game-- "But I've been meanin' to ask you if you're interested in this hero." He thumbed his own chest with a smirk. Baije laughed aloud, and clapped Jyo's shoulder with his palm.

"Is that really all? You think in exchange for helping Game, all we'd offer is a position as a second racer under my management?"

"N-no." Jyo glanced down and away sheepishly. "I, uh, I might have some money troubles." Game raised an eyebrow and stepped closer, and Ninety-Five closed the net windows and sat, crosslegged, in his virtual environment to listen. "See," Jyo started, anxiously fidgeting and avoiding eye contact, "My, uh, my current manager, Li, he and me came up together in this little nowhere city. Didn't even have a dome, just oxygen 'stillers in buildings. You had to wear filter masks on the street. Anyway, we had nothin', and we were below nothin' when we got into the races. We managed to get a deal to pay nothing upfront for a new bike and some of my implants. I only got sponsors once I started winning." Jyo grimaced. "See, I trusted Li to handle the money. He gave me my cut and said he'd handle the rest. I don't know what my finances look like. Pretty sure Doctor Creepoid knows more about my bank account than I do. So, I--"

"--need me to investigate your financials, ensure you are at no risk for losing your bike or body parts to repossession, and sever all financial ties your manager may have to you." Baije pursed his lips, and Jyo slouched like a humiliated dog who'd been caught dragging his ass. Baije held his hand out. "Give me your former manager's card. I need to have a very serious discussion with him, then contact our legal team. Game, you and Jyo can discuss the specifics of how he's going to help you survive the Prix."

Jyo, with a tiny, sheepish grin, fished out a few crumpled yuan bills and an advertisement for a strip club, and finally found his phone buried in his pocket. He pressed in a code to unlock the heads-up display, generated in a flat holoscreen over the phone.

"His contact card's in there." He passed the phone to Baije, then turned to Game as Baije walked away, already bringing up the dialer on his own phone. "So, hey, listen, about last night-"

Game cut him off. "Unit Ninety-Five, idle." Unit Ninety-Five, still eavesdropping from the screen, gasped and bolted to the back of his environment and pulled up a game of solitaire in the background. As he jumped to grab cards and pull them into place, Game whipped back around to Jyo. "You'd best have a damn good plan, or be ready to come up with one."

"Listen, I'll do whatever I can, but the fact is-- and let me tell you, it ain't easy for me to admit it-- you're a better racer than me. For now," he added under his breath, then continued, reticently. “But the best I can offer is to watch your back.”

“Bull shit.” Game slipped a finger into Jyo's shirt collar and tugged him down to eliminate the slight height difference, because shit if he was going to let this gangly, pretty fucker tower over him. “You got some trick to catching up with me. You damn near passed me yesterday in a slower bike-”

“And damn near fucking killed me, you crazy shit-”

“How the fuck do you do that?” It was very hard to remain angry when Jyo's face was this close, but Game endured.

“Trade secret," Jyo spat, his shoulders tensing forward and his hands coming to fists. Game felt his hands close tight and squeeze, as if Jyo's neck were already clasped between them, but Baije cleared his throat and Jyo's aggression subsided like a rock sinking into a river.

"I can't reach your manager, Jyo." He passed Jyo his phone back and folded his arms. "I've contacted our legal team, though, and they're already drawing up the paperwork. I'll have you look it over and sign it in the car. Let's move, and quickly." He swiftly about-faced, shaking his head even as Unit Forty-Six met him and gave him his access keyring. "I have an ill premonition about this."

Baije swiped the access strip against the uniwheel, and all the doors and trunk opened. Unit Forty-Six swooped around to check that the trailer was attached and chirruped affirmation to the driver's side window. Baije chuckled as he adjusted his mirrors, and Forty-Six hovered close. "Listen, little friend, I may send you an emergency signal. Can you promise not to go into idle mode?" Forty-Six trilled, and Baije scratched the top of the module nearest him, surely an analog for a head. "Keep Unit Ninety-Five entertained. I'm trusting you two to take care of the garage.”

Baije's uniwheel, with its oval cab and deep seats, was much more comfortable than its awkward outward appearance might suggest. Jyo piled into the rear bench seat and buckled himself in right behind Game. Game grunted as Jyo's knees pressed right into his back, and whipped around with a threatening glare. Jyo tried to pout but only managed a sarcastic smirk. "Sorry, man, got these long gorgeous legs, they gotta go somewhere."

"I'll stick 'em somewhere." Game swiped a hand out and snatched Jyo's vapor pipe from his front pocket, to squawked protest. Baije, climbing in, frowned as he saw Game lifting the pipe to his lips.

"You'll scramble your circuitry if you start using that thing."

Game exhaled a thin stream of vapor, just the way he'd seen Jyo do it, and languidly answered, "When?"

"Been usin' it since I got 'em installed," Jyo answered, under his breath and into the upholstery of Game's seat. "The nicotine hit's a good distraction, sometimes."

Game didn't ask what he meant, but didn't give the pipe back, either.

Uniwheels had come into vogue in only the last fifty years, after the automobiles invented in the twentieth century could no longer be modified to accommodate new technologies and necessities without severe changes to the vehicle's structure. They had been in some use, but after a huge round of government regulations made the uniwheel's efficiency and balance a necessity, it was now incredibly rare to see four-wheeled vehicles on the street. "Balance," so Game had learned, was the real trick, because as city streets became ever more narrow with the advent of oxygen domes and the shrinking of metropolises, acute turns were much more easily accomplished on the axis of a single large spherical wheel, albeit with the aid of two spherical balance wheels that could tilt and be lifted off the ground as needed. Game still held a silent laugh whenever someone wondered when they'd get flying cars. As if anyone wanted to be in the air anymore. Besides that, Baije was as apt with his uniwheel as Game was on his cycle, albeit without the extreme speed.

It only followed that Jyo was pinned flat to the back seat, terrified at every turn, as Baije twisted around every few seconds to provide him with assorted legal information and forms to sign, turning completely away from the dashboard and steering only with his knees. Jyo swore every time they took a sharp turn, and every time Baije spun around completely. Game, all too used to it, put his feet on the dashboard and took another drag from the pipe. Baije chuckled as he pulled up the last forms on his phone's interface and turned to transfer them to Jyo's, garnering another round of screams as a pentawheel transport blared its horn at them. Jyo scrabbled with frantic hands and twitching fingers to brace for impact. It was taking everything in Game's power not to laugh at the stupid bastard. Baije restrained himself to a demure giggle.

"Goodness, you'd think he'd never ridden in a car before."

"I've ridden in cars!" Jyo squawked, not retracting his fingers from where he'd clawed into the cushion. "This ain't a car, it's a goddamn juggernaut!" He shot a desperate look to Game. "You're seein' this, right?!"

Game shrugged and rolled his shoulders back. "I don't see what the problem is."

Jyo tried to retort, but screamed instead as they barreled up to the garage door of a nondescript black-brick building nestled between towering skyscrapers that nearly scratched the dome, and screeched to a halt just at the door. "Here we are," Baije announced, sing-song, and Jyo, puffing for breath, entered the access code on his phone. As the corrugated steel door rose, Game jumped out and dusted off the back of his denims, then glanced around to get his bearings. The buildings here, though imposing and impressive, were dirty, and if Game squinted, he could see that some of the windows on the higher levels were cracked. The steel cladding was dented, the concrete chipped and eroded. It must have been part of the old city, nearly abandoned and forgotten for the new. Out with the old, so they say. Game sneered at the very thought. Jyo held out his phone towards Baije as he undid his seatbelt.

"I've signed everything. You're, uh, my manager now, I guess." He offered a wobbly smile. "Thanks, man, I really appreciate the save."

"Thank me when we're certain everything is saved." Baije tapped his finger against his own nose in thought as he climbed out. Game and Jyo followed suit, and the three of them entered Jyo's garage in tandem. Jyo moaned, doubling over, and Baije shook his head. "Far too soon."

It appeared the warehouse had been ransacked. If there had been tools on the wall they'd all been ripped down, leaving dangling fixtures in their wake, and empty containers that had probably once held parts and equipment were strewn around. Bolts and screws were left scattered across the desk, ignored in what had surely been a whirlwind of "get the hell out of here now," and while a projector for a computer interface remained, the cords had been turned out and there was no sign of a box. The only thing of any value left was Jyo's cycle. There was a piece of paper left on the workbench, and Game's oculars translated its message into something vulgar. Jyo picked it up and ran his eyes over it with a grimace. "Li quit."

"I had assumed he had." Baije reached out, hesitated, then patted his shoulder. Jyo shivered, but buckled his arms close to his body.

"I'm betting he did to my bank account what he did here. That fucking prick!" He kicked the workbench, then sagged and sighed. "Any way you guys could turn off your translators for a sec?"

Both Game and Baije did, and Jyo kicked into a small tantrum, stomping on the note and swearing in words Game didn't understand but that Baije, based on his crestfallen expression, might. He shook his head, and spoke to Game through their shared internal comm: "It's always difficult when someone you trust betrays you."

"Why do you think I never bother with that shit?" Game's lip curled, but he turned to the cycle. "Let's get this loaded."

Together, Baije and Game maneuvered the cycle into the trailer. Jyo approached just as they got the bike in, and they turned their translators back on to understand him again:

"I ain't surprised by this. It just sucks. Greedy shit. Can we fix this?"

Game heaved a sigh of deep reluctance. "Baije, have we disbursed my winnings from last night?"

"We have not."

"Then donate twenty percent, give yourself your due bonus, pay off my repairs, and funnel the rest into his account. After you've cut his asshole ex-manager off of it." Game took one last drag on the vapor pipe, then dropped it back into Jyo's pocket. "Make sure you pay your loans."

Jyo's jaw fell, then lifted into a wide grin. "Holy shit, you really are saving my ass. Better watch out, or I'll start telling people you're actually nice."

"Fuck you, get in the car." He nodded to Baije. "Hit as many speed bumps as you can." He lumbered back up into the car and strapped in again, though he could hear Jyo talking to Baije through the window:

"What'd he mean donate?"

"He doesn't usually keep his winnings. He pays me, quite generously, pays for any repairs needed on his cycle and his living expenses, and usually just gives the rest away. He doesn't need the money. He has sponsors, and besides that, his predecessor left him a rather deep trust fund for emergencies, so even if he loses, he comes out all right."

"Shit," Jyo muttered, scratching his head and swishing his hair. "He really is a monk."

"So," Baije continued as he ascended into the driver's seat, his tone changing to a cool neutral as Game stared out the window and pretended to ignore both of them. "What will you do with this place?"

Jyo shrugged as he got in and strapped down. "Li's name was on the lease. If he doesn't pay it, they'll chase him. Guess I'll send the landlord an email lettin' him know we've, uh, ended our business relationship and that all inquiries go to him, or something."

"Sounds good." Baije turned in his seat, balancing himself on the headrest, and carefully backed out into the street again. The buildings here seemed closer than before, though it may have been a trick of the light. However, those two low-set black uniwheels, shiny and clean on a dusty street, were only catching light and Game's eye.

"Baije."

Baije adjusted his mirrors. "Ah. I see them. Curious." His mechanical eye refocused and he tilted his knuckles forward on the wheel. "Gentlemen, I suggest you ensure your seat belts are locked."

Jyo glanced around and narrowed his eyes. "Do what you gotta, just try to keep my bike in one piece."

"I can fix the bike." Baije tapped a few of the LEDs on the consoles and they turned red. "Game, kindly prepare a speed dial to Doctor Connie. Se's much better at fixing people than I am." Game grunted, and Jyo grimaced and bore down into the seat.

 "Holy shit, you think they'll really-" Before Jyo could postulate as to what they might really do, Baije put his foot on the accelerator pad and launched the uniwheel into motion. In the corner of his hearing, Game heard the two black cars rev up and lurch forward behind them.

"I'll try to shake them," Baije announced, shifting gears, and the cab sank down onto the wheel as the whole vehicle flattened. Baije's entire demeanor seemed to shift with the vehicle, his gaze darkening as the seats seemed to sink (though Jyo could feel the floor lifting to accommodate the wheel). Baije's eyes darted to the mirror, then back to the road, narrowing with his focus. "If only you could just ride that bike, but then, that wouldn't protect you, and that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

"Mr. Zhu-"

"Vehicles can be replaced. You can't." And with that, Baije dug his foot in and sent them speeding down the open road. Game crossed one leg over the other and gripped his feet to keep himself steady, and Jyo flung himself back against the seat. He glanced back out through the rear view, and saw the passenger window on one of the followers roll down and the barrel of a pistol poke out over its side mirror.

"Shit, they got guns!"

“Get down, Jyo!” Baije urgently flung a hand back to push Jyo into place and whirled back around to face the road just in time to veer around a traffic post. “If worse comes to worst, I'll get you two to safety. You're my clients, and I take good care of my clients. Just hold on tight.”

Baije took a few quick swerves around tight corners and other vehicles, and Jyo erupted in a series of swearwords that simply were not translating in Game's ears. The most he caught was “fuck your hair” and “ass full of bees,” and most of the rest was drowned out by gunfire.

Game caught a glimpse of the passengers in the other cars and realized they looked familiar. Not by face, but expression. When he focused his eyes, he could see them wearing the same blank expression as the bodyguards from the night before. Their gazes were unfocused, eyes vacant, and their motions, though precise, were stiff. Robotic.

“Baije,” he said aloud. “They're Usa-Gi.”

“I had assumed, but thank you.” Baije spun the wheel to turn onto an empty street, just as the back windshield shattered and Jyo flinched and screamed. “Hold on tight. I'm going to beat your time.”

Baije put the pedal down hard, and Game braced himself to the seats. Jyo fell silent but for his chattering teeth and took cover down against the front seats, his hands down against his neck. The motor roared, and Game smelled ozone. The buildings and sidewalks passed them by in a rush Game couldn't calculate, until another black car sped out in front of them. Baije hit the brakes hard, cranking the wheel around to try and evade. Even Game could feel the weight of the trailer holding them back; they were spinning sideways, and then there was nothing but rattling metal and crunching steel.

There were noises as all the car's computers went into panic mode, beeping and whirring, and an androgynous voice repeated “The vehicle is inoperable. The vehicle is inoperable.” The driver's side of the cab had crunched and collapsed in, and Baije was limp in his seat. The black car was rolled over on its side, but its driver, another suited bodyguard, had crawled out and drawn a gun. Game kicked his door open and went to yank the back door open.

“Get out. There might be a hydrogen leak.”

Jyo stumbled out just as the two other black cars caught up and screeched to a halt behind them. “Shit,” both Game and Jyo muttered, and flattened themselves against the cab as the bodyguards filed out of the cab and drew their guns. “You armed?” Jyo asked.

“Just Baije.”

“Just- what?”

Baije burst out of the cab, shoulders back, blood still streaming from a cut on his forehead, his gaze focusing on the bodyguards. “Both of you, stay put.” Baije leapt forward, dodging the gunfire with unnaturally swift movements, then seized the nearest bodyguard by the neck and flung him into the second. As Baije fluidly spun around to tackle the next shooter, Game yanked his phone from his back pocket, pressed the emergency dial, and growled into it:

"Doctor Connie, now. Tell hir we need an out. Generate our GPS location." Jyo, meanwhile, watched, mesmerized, as Baije swiftly and methodically disabled or disarmed the bodyguards. He could see Baije's clothes were ruined by bullets, but there was not nearly enough blood.

"Holy fuck," Jyo rasped, as Baije threw the last guard into his vehicle, leaving a meteoric impact in the steel and tipping the entire cab over. "What... is he?"

Game grunted, as Baije slowly pivoted around to face them, examining his hands and skin. His flesh was singed with black circles, his shirt was tattered, and wherever there wasn't blood, Jyo could now see sparking circuitry and the twitching of his fingers and face. "My, my," Baije remarked, as if studying a cup of tea rather than his own mangled parts. "I had hoped I would be more durable than this." Without further warning, he collapsed to a heap, and Jyo rolled from their hiding spot to his side.

"Baije! Mr. Zhu! Shit, don't you die!" He yanked what was left of Baije's shirt off to stem the bleeding in his chest, only to reveal that where the skin had been shredded from his belly, there was only cords and machinery. Jyo swore and started to try to patch the skin back into place while holding the shirt over what little parts of him still bled.

Game, meanwhile, faced the road as more black cars roared closer. He could hear sirens, but they weren't nearly close enough. But he could also hear a familiar, and very welcome ruckus approaching.

"Jyo! He'll be fine! Unlatch your bike from the trailer!" Game jumped up and hurried to the trailer to do just that, and Jyo roared back an insult that was immediately swallowed by the whirring of helicopter blades from above.

A woman's voice sounded over the loudspeaker: "You boys are more trouble than you're worth!" Jyo looked up to see a woman in a white minidress leaning out of the side of a slim, boxy carrier copter, half-hanging off of a chain ladder. Long black ringlets dangled over a slim shoulder, halfway obscuring the white megaphone she held to her face. Then, he got a glimpse up that way-too-short skirt, and realized that was probably not exactly a woman. "You're lucky I like you, Game!" Se winked and dropped the ladder. "Get out of the way, I'm turning the magnet on!" Game finished unlatching the bike and hurried to the ladder, and motioned for Jyo to follow. Jyo hoisted Baije over his shoulder and climbed, one handed. The woman (?) whistled appreciatively, then hauled him up the last rung of the ladder and carefully hoisted Baije off of Jyo's shoulder as he got his footing again.

"Ain't you something, tall man? I'd love to admire ya, but we got places to be. Name's Doctor Connie. Pilot-slash-chauffeur here is Jiro.” Jyo glanced past hir shoulder to see a gray-haired man wearing goggles and a leather bomber jacket at the controls. Connie, however, caught his chin and smirked as se perused his face. “You're prettier than you are in holovision. You go sit down. I gotta triage my patient here, and since your bike's loaded, we got places to be. Wave goodbye to the gunmen, boys!” With that, Connie brushed past Jyo to where Baije had been strapped to a table, and Jyo stumbled over to sit next to Game in one of the two foldout seats. He could still see black cars gathering down below, and twenty or thirty of the bodyguards in black suits with vacant eyes congregated under the copter, their rifles pointed up but not firing. Game yanked Jyo's shirttail.

“Sit, stupid, they can still see you.” Game's face fixed into a grim glare. “We'll talk about this later. Gimme your fucking pipe.”

Jyo passed Game the vapor pipe and a tube of liquid nicotine, and spent the helicopter ride showing him how to fill the chamber and waiting for a turn to take a drag. He definitely did not think about the fact that those men had been waiting for him outside of his garage, and that if he hadn't had the devil's luck, he'd be as torn up as Baije. And he knew he didn't have nearly as much metal on his insides.

 


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Game and Jyo plot to fix their problem with help from unexpected sources.

**4:**

Of course, Game's garage had a helipad and a private operating room. It was rarely used, but it was there, and Connie wheeled Baije into it. Se'd put him into “lock” mode, because of course, when you're ninety-percent implant or replacement parts, you don't get knocked out, you get locked like a computer.

Jyo had never seen someone like him. He was trying as hard as he goddamn could not to be surprised by anything for fear of jolting something in his own brain out of place.

Jyo lamely followed along behind Jiro down into the kitchen after Connie and hir stretcher vanished into the back room of the garage. He half-noticed Unit Forty-Six whipping up the stairs past him. “We hadn't been informed we were expecting you, Mister Capaco,” Jiro offered hesitantly, as they reached the bottom landing. “We don't ask too many questions, but-”

“Baije's my manager now, too.” He ruffled his stringy, road-greased hair as Jiro scrutinized his face. He scrutinized Jiro right back. He couldn't see any implants on Jiro but for a small camera implanted in his forehead. He probably had others to watch his sides and back while he was piloting. For now, however, Jiro seemed to be looking for something else as he perused Jyo's face. “I, uh, I've had my eye on getting in his stable for a while, but I only really met him yesterday. He's a good guy, though.”

“So he is.” Jiro glanced around, face twitching as he thought. “Er, I suppose you can entertain yourself. I'm going to assist Doctor Connie.” He pushed the empty coffeepot to Jyo and hurried away. Jyo sighed. Just making sure he was trustworthy, Jyo supposed. He knew how to work a coffeepot, anyway, and, unable to think of much else, he set some to brew and then leaned against the counter, trying not to think.

As such, he didn't notice a light flicker on next to him, nor a holographic figure approaching. It wasn't until the projection of Unit Ninety-Five plopped down to sit, cross-legged, in the air beside him and touched his hair that he jumped."It's okay, y'know." Unit Ninety-Five winked down at him, even as he resettled himself and tried to fold his arms and act cool again. "Baije's been hurt worse. It's not like this's the first time someone's tried to kill Game. He is sort of a celebrity and all." Unit Ninety-Five started counting off on his fingers. "He's had creepy fangirls, creepier fanboys, guys tryin' to rob him, all sorts'a bad stuff. So, don't feel bad-"

"Hey, that guy would'a died if he weren't mostly a robot." Jyo blew some hair from his face and hunched his shoulders. "How'm I supposed to feel about that?"

"Like you're important to him." Unit Ninety-Five shrugged. "He took you on without even thinkin' about it. What's that tell ya? He likes you. Game does, too."

"Pfft. Bullshit. You hear the way he talks shit?"

"If Game didn't like you, you wouldn't be in here. Jiro woulda called you a cab." Unit Ninety-Five grinned. "He must trust you. I mean, he talks like he hates you, but he likes you."

"Me an' him ain't traded two nice words." Jyo sulked a little more deeply.

"When it comes to Game, ya gotta look at what he does. Actions speak louder'n words, so they say." Unit Ninety-Five stood up, stretched his arms and legs, and grinned at Jyo. "So, I'm guessin' you were thinkin' about doing something stupid, like skippin' town and gettin' out of this mess while you still could."

Jyo surveyed him, looking into the projection's eyes though he knew it was probably only a camera making contact. "Maybe." He took the datachip the Doctor had given him from his pocket. "But I got a better stupid idea all of a sudden." He approached the monitor. "You think if we can prove someone's fixing the race, the League Authority'll shut the bad guys down?"

"Let me check the rulebook." Unit Ninety-Five's eyes blinked yellow static for a few seconds, then whirred back to wide, round pupils and brought a nod with them. "Okay, yeah, fixing races or attempting to do so is a pretty big deal.” He fidgeted with his fingers, tapping them back and forth. “Like, actual crime big deal, since the League Authority is partially funded and subsidized by the government, and the taxes collected from gambling odds are substantial.” He scuffed his foot against the back of his other leg, his brow furrowed, his arms folding tight with heavy thought. “The rules are pretty darn strict, but you'd need solid proof."

"What if I had it?" Jyo held the chip up to the camera. "The guy who laid the deal out to me said this would connect right to his computer. If you and me could, I dunno, backtrace it without him getting wind of who's accessing him, you think we could get their data for your solid proof?” He grinned, all crooked and wild, feeling as brilliant as sunlight. “What do you think we could do with that?"

"Why, I could contact the authorities immediately!" Unit Ninety-Five clapped his hands together with a smile reminiscent of Baije's, then held his hands out. "Gimme, gimme!"

"Hang on, hang on." Jyo stepped back to look Ninety-Five in the eyes again. "This could be risky, y'know? We gotta play it careful."

"Nobody," Game suddenly sounded from behind them, a solid, echoing reproach, as he stormed up from a stairwell leading to one of the storage rooms, "plays with Unit Ninety-Five."

Jyo flinched before recovering and pivoting on his heel. "Y'know, I agree completely." He extended his arm and held the datachip out to Game. "That's why I'll give this to you." He twiddled it between his thumb and index fingers, and Game took it into his palm. "Remember last night? That Doctor says his contract's in here..."

Jyo and Ninety-Five, together, repeated the plan to Game, and Game scowled. "I don't like it."

"But if it gets you out of danger..." Jyo trailed off, wringing his hands, and Game cocked an eyebrow at him, his lip curling into a sneer.

"Don't make those puppydog eyes at me. Since when do you care?"

"Hey, I don't just leave people in the lurch." Jyo crossed his arms. "M'nice. You're a dick, but if we can keep you from gettin' hurt, that's good for everyone."

"Hmph. Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do." Game scowled at Jyo and let it linger, burning the glare into the toned flesh of an oh-too-pretty cheek, then turned back to Unit Ninety-Five. "Let's set up firewalls. This might be the only way anyone gets arrested for this."

Game used his control to turn on several specific firewalls, locking things out and keeping things in, and Unit Ninety-Five hummed and tapped his toes on the screen. Jyo fidgeted and took a few steps back as Game looked up. He realized that Game, too, looked Ninety-Five in the face rather than the camera. “Ninety-Five, I don't know how much I trust that Doctor's programming, so if you start feeling anything funny, you tell me straightaway. The second we've got the proof to where his tracer leads and the document itself saved securely to your servers, you disengage and disconnect. In short-”

“Spit the chip out once I get the goods. Got it.” Unit Ninety-Five waved Game off, then bounced from heel to heel. “Gimme the chip! We're gonna hit the creepoids so hard it hurts!”

“Calm down, calm down.” Game grimaced and turned the datachip over in his hands a few more times, before opening the case, taking out the chip, and plugging it into one of the input slots on Unit Ninety-Five's side.

Unit Ninety-Five seemed to freeze up. His image flickered. His eyes turned to static and his mouth opened. More static poured out, flooding the screen. Unit Ninety-Five's voice, garbled and nonsensical and mixed with all sorts of incidental noises, poured from the speakers in a tremulous roar, and Game quickly snatched up the interface rod.

“Ninety-Five, close the program!” Ninety-Five's voice sounded like it was screaming, like a child having his fingernails torn out. The volume ratcheted louder, and Jyo covered his ears, then rushed for the console and yanked the datachip from the input. It didn't end Ninety-Five's meltdown, and the avatar screamed, writhing and tearing at his hair and clothes. His body seemed to warp, fingernails forming claws, teeth long, hair wild, and he twisted, still screaming, _still screaming_. The holographic environment, all static and snow, began to tint horrible crimson red, and Game dropped the interface and yanked a manual keyboard out from the desk. His fingers flew across the keys. “Ninety-Five, identify!”

“G... Gen... mu...” Ninety-Five stuttered, under the screaming and screeching noises. “Gen ... mu ... he's ... watch ... ing ...”

Suddenly Connie was behind them and se seized Game's shoulders and pushed him back. Se hit a quick combination of seven keys and the screen went dead. The noise stopped all at once, the room dark. Connie sighed with relief and wiped hir brow, and turned back to where Game shook, enraged.

“Tell me you did not just wipe my machine.”

“Game, darlin', I don't break your toys.” Se pushed another key and the projection snapped back on, black static, black light. “I fix 'em, since you play so rough.” Se traced the sequence se'd typed in front of hir, as if onto an invisible keyboard. “That was a universal shutdown code. Anything built in the last century takes a nap when you put that in.” Game's shoulders dropped. “Whatever was on that chip didn't like your firewalls, but your AI is too sophisticated to just eat itself like most of them do.” Se passed Game the wireless interface with a wink. “One of these days, you'll have to let me examine him.”

“No chance in hell,” Game grumbled, and he started to input his passcodes again. “I'll have to make sure he's secure. How's Baije?”

“Recovering.” Connie giggled. “Pulled a few bullets out, replaced his shoulder joints and part of the abdominal muscles. I've been wanting to try out that new synth skin from Aspect Tech, and it's exactly as good as they say. Smooth as butter.” She rubbed Game's back, and Game jerked away. “Let me know next time you take a tumble.”

“I prefer my actual skin, thanks.” Game sneered, but the main screen came on. Ninety-Five wasn't there, and Jyo winced.

“Did it...”

“Ninety-Five.” Game spoke firmly. The little prince avatar peered in from off screen, hair and one golden eye just visible.

“M'I in trouble?”

“You are not in trouble.” Ninety-Five trudged on screen, dressed down in plain clothes, battered jeans and a stained shirt. Game clicked his tongue. “Under the weather?”

“That thing messed me up. I need a nap.” Ninety-Five plopped down and sagged, holding his head in his hands. Connie leaned close to Game.

“I'd like to check his circuitry and run a virus scan. Turn him off.”

Game nodded and addressed Ninety-Five. “I'm sorry about this. We're going to let you rest.”

“Wait.” Ninety-Five lifted his face a little. “I'll... I'll wake up again, right? It won't be dark forever, will it?”

“It won't.” Game's face twisted, unreadable, and he nudged the side of the controller to make the image vanish. He then turned back to Jyo and Connie, that unreadable look channeling directly into rage. “I've had two-thirds of my team get snarled in this. How do we fix this?”

The only noise was the whir of the projector shutting down completely. Jyo fidgeted, then contritely looked to Game. “Guess you gotta survive the Prix, at any cost. Which means outrunning anything they throw atcha, 'cept maybe the Prince, since if they were gonna use the Prince to crash ya, they wouldn't've asked me.” Jyo sighed uneasily, then glanced to Connie, who still watched him with a sly smirk. “I ... I got an idea.” He turned back to Game. “Can I trust you?”

Game sniffed and crossed his arms. “You really wanna ask that question?” He cocked an eyebrow, then shook his head to Connie. “Take Unit Ninety-Five's console to the work room.”

“Such a demanding boy.” Connie clicked hir tongue, but picked up the computer and strode out, hir heels clicking on the concrete. “You're lucky I like you, sweetheart.”

Game grimaced and waited for hir voice to stop echoing and the door to shut before reaching into Jyo's front pocket and snatching the vapor pipe. Jyo let him. Game took a few puffs, little tendrils of smoke rolling out from the corners of his lips. Jyo waited, then leaned in, his face close to Game's, lips nearly touching, to repeat: “Can I trust you?”

“Whatever it is you got, quit beating around the bush and tell me, shithead.” Game blew smoke at Jyo's mouth. Jyo just inhaled, then licked his lips. He grabbed the vapor pipe, and took a step back.

“Baije told you you'd fry your circuits. You know why?” He wiggled it in his fingers, and went on before Game could answer. “Kills nerve endings. Dulls 'em. People who use 'em for a long while, especially as much as I do, lose feeling in their fingertips, toes, and it keeps goin'.” He put the pipe away. “I know that 'cause I need it.” He took two steps back, pushed his overshirt off of his arms and dropped it, then shimmied his fingers into the hem of his skintight shirt. “What you're about to see and hear here has to stay between us.”

Game folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow. “Who would I tell?” Jyo read that as a 'go on.'

Jyo stripped his undershirt off and dropped it, revealing that the cut lines of muscle that had fascinated Game were very much real, but through naturally tan skin, he shouldn't have been able to see thin red wires running just under the flesh. Jyo then turned around and swept his long red hair aside, revealing a tapestry of woven wires like veins mapping the skin, covering his forearms and back and running right up his neck. “These are my naughty little secret.” Jyo smirked over his shoulder as Game traced the lines with his eyes, but it was an expression like water, and it wasn't holding form. “Tactile implants. Make the sensation of touch that much stronger. They run through lots of sensitive places.” He ran a finger down his back, tracing his spine. “My back's covered. My hands, it's linked right into my fingertip interface nodes.” One hand cupped an asscheek. “Here, too, though you gotta look, they're thinner lines.” He slapped the skin. “Pretty sensitive already.” He turned around, then dragged his fingers down his front. “Shoulders, pecs, abs, anywhere someone might wanna touch. They're involuntary, too, so they just plain don't turn off, and I can't control 'em.” Game's eyebrows rose-- if they hadn't been up before.

“I've never heard of a racer using... tactile implants.”

“That's cause nobody else does. Not these, anyway.” Jyo folded his arms over his chest. Game could see his muscles twitching. “I checked. Closest comparison is seismic sensors in the feet, or balance boosters to the inner ear.” He patted his chest, the sensation raising gooseflesh on his arms. “This shit wasn't meant for racing.”

Game's stomach twisted, as he realized what it was meant for. “It's meant for fucking.”

Jyo's head dropped. “Yeah. Me an' Li, we figured we could get rich quick sellin' what we had. He could do robbery jobs, sell his services as a thug, but me, I was always too much of a kid, so he never trusted me. Said I wasn't good for much but fucking, so that's what I'd do.” Jyo scrubbed his face with his hands. “With the implants... stuff that feels good feels really good, so it makes it bearable, and it gets better for whoever you're with. So, we took a big loan, and...” He sighed, and his hands fell to his sides. “I got the idea to try racing after I got the implants done. I won an amateur night race on a borrowed cycle out back of a bar we used to frequent, and Li took it from there.” A watery, weak smile replaced his usual bravado. “Suddenly, I'm dominating the bush leagues, zipping into the majors. It's 'cause of these.” He tapped his shoulders and forearms. “I can feel air currents. 'Course, I feel most everything. I can't touch some stuff 'cause it rubs my nerves raw.” Game got a flash of memory, of Jyo looking pained and disgusted every time he touched the velvet curtain. Jyo's smile had sunken away, the pain back in place, and he pulled his shirt back on. “Growin' up, I thought Card Sanzang was the coolest guy. He was like the wind, or a paper airplane just carried along. I wanted to be that ...” Jyo's hands closed into fists. “Effortless. Liked watching you race, too.” He nodded to Game. “I saw you on the holoscreens, always thought you were a prick, but you were so fucking cool it didn't matter. You know how much it fucking sucks that the only thing that gets me even close to that level is the fact that I'm a slut?”

“How do they help?” Game spoke quietly, evenly, as if Jyo weren't gutting himself in front of him. Jyo sniffed.

“I can feel how the other racers are moving. It lets me glide through 'em. Lets me do that trick that catches me up to you. I call it the slipstream.” He sighed, scratching his scalp. “It's from this old cartoon. With these three guys in jets. They'd use each other's drift spaces to go faster and faster. I just ride your currents, and it...” He gestured with one hand, uselessly. “It works.”

“Fine.” Game nodded. “We can use this.” Jyo's head popped back up.

“How?”

“I've got an idea. It involves your little trick.” Game's eyes narrowed and he allowed a dervish of a smirk. Jyo shook his head, hard.

“You're gonna need implants like mine. The adjustment period and recovery time...”

“I've got a better idea.” He picked up Jyo's overshirt and threw it at him. “Let's go have a chat with Doctor Connie.”

* * *

“Implants without implanting them.” Connie's face spread with amusement, and se folded hir arms over hir chest. “Sweetie, what are you up to?”

Baije, sitting up in the recovery bed, perked up from the sedation with vague amusement in his softened features. It seemed like moving his face took much effort, like trying to move through molten rubber. It just made Jyo itch to watch him try. Game, meanwhile, was impassive.

“I don't like implants.” Game sneered, swinging his legs off of the metal armchair as Jyo fidgeted at his shoulder. “But I need a boost.”

“So you ask me for something that you can take off?”

“The implants I'm looking for are physically unpleasant to bear long-term.” He noticed Jyo slouching out of the corner of his eye, but kept his focus on Connie, lips thin, all unconcern under his businesslike tone. “I need something I can use when I need to, and remove at will. And it needs to be involuntary when it's on.”

“I see.” Connie's eyebrows bounced, and se gave Game's cheek a patronizing little pat. “This wouldn't have anything to do with the trouble I had to fish you out of, would it?”

Game swatted hir hand away. “You don't need to know.”

“Baby boy, I already do.” Se strutted around Game's chair and strode for the door, hir mesh skirt swishing with the sway of hir hips. “Text me the details and tell me I can do anything, and I'll make it happen.” Se closed the door behind hir, and Game, pushing back annoyance from lips and furrowed brow, lifted his gaze to Baije.

The next words that escaped him were so quiet, Jyo nearly thought he'd imagined them. “How are you feeling?”

Baije smiled- he always seemed to smile, but this one took a lot more effort. “It's the most damage I've taken in a while, but I'm feeling fine. I apologize for the delay on repairing your cycle-”

“Shut the fuck up about that.” Game grimaced and sat forward. “I can hire someone. I've got some of the old man's contacts in my phone. I'm sure there's someone I can trust in there.” He glanced back to Jyo. “We'll call someone for him, too. His took some damage when the uniwheel rolled, more when the magnet picked it up.”

“We had no other way of getting us all out.” Baije's eyes and voice communicated apology to Jyo, though he couldn't make the rest of his face match. “We'll pay for repairs, for the trouble, of course.”

“Thanks,” Jyo muttered, eyes low. Baije leaned forward, then grimaced and sat back.

“Please, don't look so helpless. I do so hate when things are wrong and there's nothing I can do to fix it.” Baije reached a hand out, and Jyo could see the fresh, baby-pink synth skin pulling at the motion. Jyo stepped in and put his hand over Baije's.

“Ain't you. You done fine. I trust you.” He glanced back to Game. “You, me, him, Ninety-Five, we're in this shit together. We're gonna get through, one way or another.” He put on a confident smile and Game nodded back.

The three of them hashed out the plan, then and there. Game and Jyo had races the next three weeks, in three separate cities, and then, ten days after the last of those, came the Prix. Barring any huge shakeups, Jyo and Game were both all but set to get in, so whatever time they could spend in the same city had to be spent practicing. Baije would stay with Game to coach his races, but send Unit Forty-Six along with Jyo and watch the race live on the holoscreens.

“It won't be quite like having me there, but Forty-Six has eyes too, and he'll alert me.” He summoned the unit with a whistle, and Forty-Six burst through the door and perched on his arm much like a bird might, whistling and chattering, its head module bumping against Baije's chin to be rewarded with a chuckle. Jyo's jaw fell.

“You got any normal AI around here?”

“Unit Forty-Six has only had some minor modifications to make him an ideal assistant.” Baije scratched what Forty-Six had for a chin as if he weren't steel and lightweight carbon alloy. “You'll find he'll suit our purposes well.”

“I believe you.” Jyo held a hand out but Forty-Six ignored him. He realized the AI hadn't yet acknowledged him, and decided this one was probably a little more normal. “Li wasn't so hot at the bleacher coaching anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, Unit Forty-Six, identify.” Its ocular sensors flashed, and he, out of habit as much as anything, pointed to himself. “Jyo.”

Unit Forty-Six chirped in response and Baije patted his head. “He responds to Shiro, as well.” Jyo's face scrunched as he took that in.

“I'm pretty sure that's a bad pun, but it ain't translating right.”

Unit Ninety-Five was out for repairs for ten days, but Connie returned him once se'd made sure the basic programming was clean and clear, and Baije had him up and running just after Jyo returned from his first race away, victorious.

“Jyo!” Ninety-Five waved from the screen, and Jyo grinned when he saw the boy had traded his princely uniform and the rags he'd worn the last Jyo saw him for a clean tee and denims, this one with designs on the shirt, and a cape. “I saw the whole race! You did so great!”

“Couldn't have done it without my best fan,” he laughed, and held his hand up to where the image of Ninety-Five levitated. Ninety-Five ran up and slapped it, and Jyo swore he could feel the touch. There was a grunt behind him as Game strode in from the kitchen to give Jyo what he probably thought was a resentful glower that only came off as gruff displeasure.

“He's fucking obsessed. Jyo this, Jyo that.”

“Jealous?” Jyo waggled his eyebrows, but he could feel his breathing had changed. Game, too, wasn't quite as dispassionate as usual. If Jyo hadn't known better, he'd have thought Game was happy to see him.

Hell, when robots shit, right?

Game was busy creating a simulation program on Ninety-Five's system, and Ninety-Five seemed to lose focus on Jyo as he input directions and code, so Jyo sat back and watched for a minute. “You know, there's other things you can be fiddling with.” He winked at Game, but Game ground his teeth.

“Quit talking to me. I can't focus with pests in my ear.”

Jyo snorted but slung himself over a chair. Baije poured him a cup of coffee and set up a datapad on the kitchen table, and the whole group settled in for what had become a typical, quiet night. Baije would review their races, both on video from all angles and from their experiences, and offer corrections and advice. Baije would give Jyo and Game something to eat, and Baije urged Jyo to go out for a drink: “We wouldn't want people to start thinking you've changed all of a sudden. It'll attract too much attention.” Just the same, Baije didn't let Jyo go alone. Unit Forty-Six usually shadowed him, just in case. The first time, it annoyed him, but by the fifth or sixth night out, he was actually a little happy to see the little white droid, curled in a little wheel on his cycle, shift its shape to an odd sort of cat and chirp to greet him. Some nights, if Jyo stayed in, they'd end up talking about the plan, thoughts they'd had, ideas. It seemed they talked about damn near everything but what Jyo really wanted to talk about.

Still, damn if he was going to bring it up himself.

“Missed ya,” he muttered towards Game, then took a big slug from his coffee cup. Game didn't seem to hear him. “Never as much fun out there without your ass to chase.”

“Hm.” Jyo had expected a comeback, but he only saw Game's eyes narrow in either concentration or a concerted effort to ignore him. Either way, he wasn't getting told off. They had bigger things to worry about than that 'about last night' Jyo had never gotten to ask about ten days ago.

Either way, he was sleeping on Game's couch and listening to him toss and turn in his loft, and he couldn't help but smirk as just how well he'd slept those ten nights ago.

The next morning, Game shoved Jyo's shoulder to wake him up and growled right into his ear. “Doctor Connie's got my equipment in. We're going to hir office. Put pants on.”

Jyo pushed Game back, still feeling Game's cafe-au-lait hot and sweet breath tingling on his nose. “You can't give a man a nicer wake-up?”

Game sneered and pivoted for the kitchen. “I had to wake up to hir. I give what I get.”

Baije explained in a whisper that Connie was some distant relation of Canard Sanzang's, and se considered Game a favorite nephew. “Se works as an independent contractor for Aspect Tech, Game's big sponsor, but se has the freedom to modify the tech to suit Game's exact desires, and though se's a bit eccentric, hir work is incomparable, and se'll do anything for Game.” Jyo had to admit, eccentric didn't quite cover it. He didn't know a lot of tech scientists whose preferred work clothes consisted of a lab coat worn open over a black, flower-patterned romper, but damn if se didn't get hir work done.

Se tried to greet Game with a kiss on the cheek, which he dodged to drop into the metal chair next to hir examination bench. Jyo kept his distance from the bench himself- he'd never had a good day if he had to sit on one of those. Baije leaned on the door, his ear close to the crack. Connie looked from eye to eye, then shook hir head and clicked hir tongue.

"Honestly, boys, you treat me like a pit viper. Mr. Zhu." Hir coal-black, spark-bright eyes skimmed over him. "All systems operational?"

"They are," he affirmed with his usual vacant smile. "The abdominal muscles seem even better than before, thank you." He tapped his side. "I don't feel them pull the tissue as much."

"Hm." Connie smirked and rubbed hir chin. "Well, keep an eye on them- and let me know when you want to replace the other one, while you're at it." Se tugged at her lower left eyelid, poking hir tongue out, before whirling back around to a sealed plastic box on her work table.

"What's wrong with your other eye?" Jyo frowned at Baije, who was trying to cover a flush on his cheeks. Game scoffed.

"Nothing. His left eye is still the original article, so they don't match. Connie just wants to play." He raised his volume. "Se can be obstinate like that, even though se knows his preferences."

Connie winked at Game. "Oh, don't be shy, sweetie. After all, they're talking about your secrets, why not talk about his?" Before Game could could argue on, Connie pivoted right back around with something wrapped in gossamer-thin cloth and carefully laid it on his lap. "This is what you were asking me about."

Game met hir eyes and nodded, then carefully unfolded the cloth. Connie stepped back and away as he unraveled it, reaching into a back pocket for a vapor pipe. "It's funny, this is actually very old tech. It's since been replaced in modern practice with direct subdermal implants, but, well, the purists say it's different when it's not under your skin, when you can take it away." Se chuckled, took a puff, and offered the pipe to Jyo. Jyo shook his head, and Connie shrugged and added, "Your old man preferred these. He was fine with body mod, but he'd rather be able to remove his and be a man more than a machine, if he could."

"Why do you think I feel the same?" Game answered under his breath. Jyo knew he'd heard him. He wasn't sure Connie or Baije had. Connie giggled anyway.

"Nothing wrong with machines, darling."

"No." Game scowled, and pulled the last bit of delicate cloth away. "But I'm not one."

What Connie had given Game looked like a thin length of translucent cloth with blue and green wiring woven throughout. A few green wires hung off of the ends. “Shirt off." Se gestured, and he pulled his shirt up and over his head. Connie knelt down and gently attached the wires to his three center fingers on his right hand, wrapped the length of the thing up around his shoulders and back and down to his left hand, and then fastened the other end to his fingers there. The cloth hugged tight to his skin, as if sealed there, and as the last connection touched his left ring finger, Game felt the piece warm. "They're called mantles, or mantras, depending. They reminded the older doctors of prayer shawls, so the name stuck." Game flexed his fingers and felt a rush of sensation. He was suddenly, innately aware of every tug and pull at the skin, every twitching muscle, every tiny shift in air across his back and shoulders. He shuddered and pulled at the fabric, but Connie grabbed his wrists. "This is what you wanted, isn't it, darling?" Se smiled into his face like one shouting into the void. "I had to dig deep to get it, so be gentle." Se let go and stood back. "That was Card's. He used it for away races."

Game's breath caught. Jyo winced, then swaggered a step closer to put a hand on Game's shoulder. “Hey, listen-”

Game jerked the second Jyo's palm fell even close to him and flung an arm back to shoo Jyo off. Jyo held both hands up. “Hey. Whoa. Sorry, forgot how sensitive you were. Listen, I-”

“What?” Game spat, his fists clenching. Jyo set his shoulders back and scowled.

“I was gonna tell you, wear a tight shirt.” He plucked at his own breast. “It helps.”

Game's lips flared, pupils dilated like dark stars on the verge of supernova, but he dropped his fists to his side. “This'll work.” He pulled his shirt back on, nodded to Connie, and strode out. Connie chuckled into hir palm and winked at Jyo.

“He's never been a happy child.” Se waved the back of hir hand. “Get going, it sounds like he's cooking something in that pretty yellow head of his.” Jyo chuckled, and Baije hummed into his hand.

“Goodness, I can only hope he doesn't fry himself!” He rose up and beckoned Jyo, and Jyo followed him out into the hallway, a few steps behind Game.

“I'd ask you why he doesn't like hir, but I don't think he likes anything.”

Baije laughed aloud, but shook his head. “He acts thick-skinned, but he's the kind of person who takes everything to heart. I honestly think he rejects hir attentions because of his guardian.” Jyo felt the shade of that as heavy as the shadows cast by the too-bright LED bars lining the hallway.

“Se must remind him of him, I guess.” Jyo nodded in understanding.

Game, down the hall, could hear them, but quickly turned his aurals off to tune them out and clenched his fists at his sides. How the hell did Jyo expect to get it? He didn't want Jyo to get it; it was none of his goddamned business. He was a brash idiot, a slut, reckless, feckless- what kind of moron went around like he did and expected things to work out? It was just the devil's luck he met him when he had.

His stomach had turned when Jyo had touched his shoulder. Too much feeling all at once. He hated it, but he was going to need to feel if his plan was going to work. The trouble was, something lower had turned, too, something Game had been able to ignore until the idiot had showed up, teased him, pissed him off, then kissed him. He should be able to ignore it again. Get what he needed from Jyo- like he'd gotten it before- and spend the rest of his career ignoring him until one of them went through a wall or Jyo jumped off to the next good opportunity that came by him.

Maybe it would work. As long as this worked, then life could go on.

 


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jyo and Game prepare for the Grand Prix in the badlands, but their partnership might be the toughest track to tread.

**5:**

Game insisted Jyo take some of his recent winnings and spend them on a proper practice cycle, since it wouldn't have done to just loan him one of his- Game didn't own any bikes shaped quite like Jyo's, and based on what Game knew of drift tactics, the aerodynamics would be key. He also insisted that they practice somewhere they were unlikely to be seen, and they all knew what that meant.

"I fucking hate gas masks," Jyo groused through the filter on his helmet as he hopped off of his bike. The dry dirt crumbled under his feet, and he set his hands on his hips to survey the lay of the land. Pax, under its reflective cerulean dome, gleamed in the distance, surrounded by nothing but cracked brown dirt and yellow sky. Game sneered, though the visor on his helmet covered the lower half of his face.

"They say the decontamination should be done in fifty years if air treatment and ozone patchwork continues as planned. If you'd like to wait around and rot, you can take the helmet off."

"Smart ass." Jyo rolled his eyes and started to unhook his bike from the trailer. Baije politely ignored them and took a small black box from the uniwheel (a nice new one, courtesy of Game's most recent second-place finish), and set it up on the side of the trailer. He flipped it open and a portable unit Ninety-Five popped up from the projector in the box, standing half as tall as normal but grinning.

"I haven't seen the outside in so long!" He stretched his arms, as if he knew he'd been on a car ride and been cramped in. "I can't even remember being out here!"

"We've never taken you out here before," Baije pointed out. Ninety-Five shrugged.

"Sometimes, I remember seeing places like this." He crossed his legs, hovering over the holoprojector, the camera sensor adjusting itself and raising up. "It's different, though. The sky was blue before."

"Hm." Baije pursed his lips and tipped his gaze upwards. "A hundred years ago, perhaps. Though, the air's better than it was ten years ago. Supposedly, one couldn't breathe the air here for more than a minute without causing some serious damage to one’s lungs. It's closer to five minutes nowadays." Baije tapped his bare neck with an oblivious smile. "Thank goodness for internal air filters, yes?"

"I'll tell ya what's causin' serious damage," Jyo groused as he swaggered back over to Baije and crossed his arms. "That guy's got a stick up his ass something fierce. You might wanna check and be sure he ain't damaging his internals with that, or he's gonna need something replaced."

"Now, Jyosha." Baije scolded him with a tap on the shoulder. He approached Game where he stood a few meters away, checking the gears on his cycle. "Game, is something the matter?"

"This mantra thing- it's annoying. Everything feels heavy." He flexed his fingers and shuddered. Baije seemed to understand.

"He's had the implant longer than you. You'll get used to it, and soon, you won't feel it anymore."

"Fat chance." Game shook his head and raked his gaze over Jyo across the distance again. Of course Baije didn't understand. Feeling this much was unpleasant. Feeling so deeply only meant deeper pain. Baije may have been hurt before, much like Game had, but even so, he didn't seem to have any concept of how profound this sensation was and just how much risk there was in it. Even worse, Baije couldn't know what it was to look at Jyo in his skintight uniform with tactile memories of that single contact with Jyo flashing through his brain at the sight of him. "Let's just get this over and done with."

Jyo heard him and jogged over to his bike, the steel soles of his shoes pounding dustclouds loose into the thin air. Unit Ninety-Five cupped his hands and boosted his volume: “Hey, you need to see the sim Game made again?”

“Let's try the basics, first!” Jyo shook his head, then straightened his helmet. “Game, tune to my frequency.” He tapped his helmet. Game nodded and, with a flick on his phone, matched his comm frequency to Jyo's aurals. Immediately, he remembered why he had resisted doing so, as Jyo now murmured directly into his brain: “Hey, you know how good you look in those fucking pants? Goddamn, Game, you have no idea-”

“Jyo.” Game couldn't move his jaw enough in his helmet to growl into his comm, but managed nonetheless. “Not. Now.”

“I can't help it.” Somehow, Jyo was still crooning even around the padding at his jaw. “I ain't gonna be able to ride with the hard-on you give me, just lookin' at that ass-”

“Jyo.” Baije's voice sounded in both of their aural implants. “While I appreciate the merits of skintight clothing, I can hear you.” Game could see Jyo swallow and straighten out of the corner of his eye, and muted his comm to snicker.

“Anyway.” Jyo cleared his throat and slung a long leg over his cycle and straddled the engine. “Game, let me get ahead of you, don't go full throttle. Your top speed's gonna be higher than mine.” He then kicked into gear. “Let me get some space on you, then start gaining!”

“Understood.” Game mounted his cycle and watched Jyo as he revved up his. He, too, took a moment to appreciate the merits of skintight clothing, then shut that part of his mind off. Jyo was a teacher, he was the student. That was okay. There was enough distance there.

And then, there was real distance. Jyo was off and away, knees hugging the body of the cycle, ass tight on the seat, and out of Game's reach. Game set his fingers on the handlebars and couldn't help but notice the edges of the mantra around his fingers, the lights coming through his fingernails green and blue. Then, he blinded himself to everything but the road and the prickling sensations running up his spine, and launched.

He didn't go full throttle, but close. Jyo had said he needed speed, but he still needed to let Jyo stay ahead for the test run. He tilted on the cycle to match Jyo's angle as best as he could, brushing back annoyance at having to imitate anyone, let alone him, but as he got into range, he felt it.

Jyo had said there was a sweet spot in the drift zone and he'd know it when he felt it, and he felt it now. It was like being in the eye of the storm, but with the winds rushing straight past his arms and shoulders. He felt himself moving faster. He felt lighter. He didn't even need to throttle; his speed was picking up on its own. Now, for the tricky part.

Drift was all well and good, but Jyo's slipstream meant catching the exact right angle to pass him on a turn, and it meant coming close. Like Jyo had. Game knew his instinct had been to ram Jyo when he'd passed him that closely. He was going to have to get used to the closeness, their machines nearly touching, especially when the aerostream formed by his cycle glanced off of Jyo's.

Game had gained on Jyo without even nudging the throttle, and he heard Jyo in his ear. “Take my inside. I'm watching for you.”

Somehow, that was reassuring. Game leaned into it and tilted, taking the next curve parallel to Jyo, leaving less than a meter of space between them. He could feel the air moving past Jyo like a jetstream, and he could feel his airflow match Jyo's, and he waited for the rush Jyo promised was there, and the jerk of catching his speed and harnessing it as his.

It didn't come, and suddenly the drift was gone and Jyo was way too close. All of Game's nerves screamed panic. Game jerked away and put the brakes on at the side of the road and Jyo stopped a little ahead, skidding as he rapidly dropped speed. “What happened?” Jyo kicked off of his bike and ran back, and Game dismounted and set his hands on his hips.

“It didn't work. I didn't feel it.”

Jyo scoffed into his comm, shaking his head. "You didn't feel it, or you don't think you felt it? 'Cause I felt it. You had it." He set his hands on his hips, and Game could nearly hear him shouting through his helmet. "You're thinking about it too hard! It has to-" Jyo gestured frantically, turning one hand over and over. "It has to flow!"

"Hey," Unit Ninety-Five interrupted, crackling in both of their ears. "Wanna watch the instant replay? 'Cause, I tapped Game's oculars, and-"

"Ninety-Five, we don't do that without permission." Game sighed, but beckoned Jyo. "I'll watch the footage, but I don't know if it'll help."

It didn't. Game knew what he had seen, seeing it again didn't help. Baije frowned as the footage ended with Game watching Jyo get off his cycle, and turned to Game with an eyebrow raised. "Perhaps I could follow along and capture it with my oculars."

"I dunno how I feel about you trying to keep up with us in that uniwheel." Jyo nodded to the vehicle. "I'm tellin' ya, you won't see it unless it's happening. It's a feeling." He slapped Game's back, sending a jolt through all his systems. "Let's try it again."

Game bit back a snarl, instead just gritting his teeth and raising his hackles. "Fine. As many times as it takes." He stormed off towards his bike, trying to shake off the shivers running through him. He hated this. He hated feeling his way through things like he was blind. He heard Jyo's voice in his comm:

"It's okay. It was your first go, and your senses ain't as strong as mine. We're gonna get this if it takes us all day, or the next, or even a whole bunch after that."

Game grunted back. He didn't need that. All there was left was just to do it. He braced himself against his machine, and signaled Jyo with a wave of his hand.

"On your mark."

It took another six practice runs before Game could get that close to Jyo on the drift stream without panicking. It was on that seventh run that he managed to ride smoothly and parallel to Jyo, his heart pounding and thumping in response to his internal klaxons, instincts screaming to dodge back, but sacred shit, he was here, this close to Jyo. He remembered Jyo being this close, how his stomach had flipped and his heart had nearly stopped. He could see Jyo's eyes and brow through his visor, relaxed, cool, as natural as if he were joyriding. Then, he heard his voice.

“Lean into the feeling. Give yourself to it. It'll feel so good when you pass me.”

That voice sounded like warm water, crooning, beckoning, encouraging. Game's dick twitched with interest and he lifted his ass to accommodate. That was all the lean he needed, and suddenly, he was moving past Jyo.

Jyo whooped and shouted and thrust both hands into the air. “That's it! You got it, baby! That's perfect!” Jyo veered off as Game sped onwards, cranking the throttle, off and away under his own steam.

He'd felt it. He'd felt the air move through him and tug him onwards into Jyo's path, and push him forward and through, even in passing Jyo. He felt Jyo's praise, too. It felt warm.

“That's it! That's perfect!” Jyo still whooped and shouted, waving from the side of the road, a red streak against the yellow sky. “Now, we get into the real business!”

Game nodded then hummed an affirmative into his comm. Jyo just laughed. “Amazin'. How ya feel, baby?”

He'd tell him off for calling him “baby” later. Right now, the victory lap, then they dig in and work towards the actual victory. Maybe next time, Jyo wouldn't have to talk dirty to get him to do it. That was going to make it far too hard to keep the teacher-student distance.

* * *

 

They practiced the drift until the sun went down, Game and Jyo running in circles and drifting, Baije watching the footage picked up by Ninety-Five's tap on Game's ocular implant or reading a novel on his datapad. He'd look up every once in a while when the arguing in his ear became particularly loud:

“Quit chickening out!”

“What is this if not an extended round of chicken? I like being alive, stupid. My instincts are saying no.”

“I'm tellin' you go with your gut, but not when your gut's being stupid!”

Just past sundown, they packed it in, still arguing over the comm but completely silent on the ride back. Even Jyo just glared down at Ninety-Five's box next to him.

“You saw it, right? He's a chicken.” He clucked under his breath, but Ninety-Five didn't respond, as he was in sleep mode, and Jyo scoffed at himself. It was kind of easy to forget the computer wasn't a real boy sometimes. Game, meanwhile, talked to Baije in a low voice.

“How does one simply ignore his self-preservation instincts?” He drummed his fingers against the slick brown upholstery on the side console, then glowered over to Baije at the wheel. “I'm not being rhetorical.”

“Oh? What makes you think I would know?” Baije giggled softly and Game sneered in response. “Sorry, but much like instincts themselves, it's not something one can put into words.” Game swore softly, drummed his fingers on the console in a steady rhythm, and glowered out the window at the dust rising off of the dilapidated earth from the trail they ground through it towards the dome of the city.

They returned to the wastelands the next day, bikes and all, and practiced again. The air felt rougher today, at least to Baije's filters, but it might have been his imagination. On their cycles, helmets strapped on, Jyo and Game surely didn't notice. Their minds were focused down to the road, each other, and the feel of the dirt and air. Baije watched when he could as they drove in broad circles on the packed earth, but even his more advanced eye couldn't focus on them at more than five miles off and through dust. All he could see was a faint blur through wavering yellow air, littered with dust and coppery particulate, until they stopped somewhere, got off of their bikes to argue, then got back on and rode back to the starting line, griping like primary school children all the way. Baije found himself deliberately turning the volume on his ears down just to tune them out. Unit Ninety-Five, next to him, idled in Solitaire as he captured footage. He blithely looked up towards Baije a little past high noon and after attempt nineteen for the day fell flat. The riders were returning across the sea of featureless dust.

“Game seems happy, doesn't he?” He grinned and Baije cocked an eyebrow and turned his volume up to listen in:

“-- you overgrown moron, don't go telling me you have an actual death wish!”

“If you trusted me, your body wouldn't be telling you you were gonna die! I don't know how I can make it any clearer to you--”

“If you didn't store your brain in your dick, you might be able to string more than two thoughts together and fucking communicate!”

Baije shook his head and turned them down again, still smiling. “I suppose he's having fun, if nothing else.”

Days passed, and unless one or both of them had to be in another town for a race, they were out in the desert, practicing. Seeing Game drift and arc around Jyo was a familiar sight after a few days, and quite a thrill to see when they looped near him. Through the red of Jyo's visor and the blue of Game's, he could see a grin on Jyo and, if not an outright smile on Game, then certainly a look of determined confidence.

It took nine solid days of practice and two weeks in the sun before Baije heard something other than bickering or quiet instruction on the comm. His head sprung up, because Jyo was shouting:

“That's it! That's it! You're doing it, you got it!” Jyo whooped, and Baije and Unit Ninety-Five both tried to focus. All they could see at this distance were blue and red blurs, but there was something different this time. They were mixing, nearly purple in the faded distance, and their speed had skyrocketed. Baije scrambled to focus his eyes, but the riders were too far off, too distant. He only heard the celebration.

“This is perfect! You're amazing! Just like that, keep going, just like this!” Jyo howled with delighted laughter, and under it, Baije heard it: Game laughing, too.

Miles away, Game pulled to a halt, his gas meter flashing red with warning, and Jyo screeched to a halt not too far away, jumped off of his bike, and dashed back towards him. Game hardly heard him in his ear. “I knew you could do it, you stubborn bastard!” His arms were still quivering from the rush of sensation, the wind in his veins; he felt like even standing still he was running, with the wind in his hair, the blue of the sky under his feet. He wasn't sure where he was going, but someone was shouting his name, and he wanted to get to them.

“You just had to stop--” When Jyo was at arm's length again, Game turned right around, seized him, and yanked him close.

He'd forgotten their helmets and visors were there, and shoved the bottom of his helmet up to expose his mouth, then shoved Jyo's helmet back as well and captured the angular jaw and warm mouth presented. Jyo, confused but enthused, didn't hesitate to return his kiss, half-chewing on Game's lower lip and wrapping a hand around his head and holding them together. This close, Game could feel Jyo shaking with the same windswept excitement, his mouth and tongue giddy and eager, his heart racing against Game's breast. It was nearly a minute before they realized they had to stop, and Game put his helmet back on. Jyo, though, stepped back and smiled under the bottom of his helmet.

“That's you, all you.” He put his helmet back down and ground his feet down. “I know you ain't talking with your mouth, but the rest of you knows better.”

“Shut up.” Game tried to wipe his mouth, but the helmet got in the way. Instead, he licked his lips, tasting peppermint and the bittersweet of Jyo's vapor pipe. “I need gas, but we should keep practicing. We need to have this perfect.”

“Hey, don't start thinking now,” Jyo laughed, but pivoted and trudged back towards his bike. “God knows your brain ain't up to this shit.”

Game sneered into his own visor. "At least I have one." Jyo cackled with laughter, still amped up, even swinging his arms and jumping in place.

"This is fucking rich." He put his fists in the air. "But we're gonna fucking do it!"

Game didn't have to speak. His smile was agreement enough.

 


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Prix has come, and our heroes face the road with life and death at stake.

**6:**

The night before the Prix, Game didn’t even bother to toss and turn. Instead, he watched the shadows moving across the skylight ceiling of the garage, his clothes lazily scattered on the floor of his loft and his socks still on. Three weeks of practice, a hundred and twenty hours of driving in circles in the oppressive sun, left him satisfied at sunset, but under the cold light of the moon, felt like nothing.

No matter how Jyo whooped and howled his praises before teasing him for being uptight or stupid or whatever he decided to pick on, it didn't change that their technique was just a workaround, at best. Even if it worked, it was no guarantee, and they couldn't predict how the race would go, if they would even have a chance to use it, if the racetrack wouldn't be laced with boobytraps in the Solarroad plates or snipers in the camera drones. All the encouragement in the world didn't change facts.

Someone was going to try to kill him for the sake of a stupid race. Game didn't care about winning the Prix, no matter how cool it would be if he did. The money had never mattered to him. What he wanted was to keep living, but he had to survive tomorrow, and he had no way of being sure that he would.

He closed his eyes and breathed, clearing his mind and taking in his surroundings. Card had told him that he liked to clear his mind before races, by focusing on what was immediately around him, the immediate present, and Game had come to imitate it. Breathing deeply, taking the air into his lungs, and trying to expel his anxieties. Everything could go so badly so quickly, Game knew he took his life into his hands every time he mounted his cycle.

Hell, that was a solution he hadn't considered for more than half of a second: Just stay home. It might be a nasty hit to his reputation, put him in a bad spot with his sponsors, and lose him a lot of fans and patrons, but he'd live, wouldn't he? Above and beyond all that, though, that defeated his top priority.

Breathe in, breathe out. Take it all in. A shaft of moonlight splayed across the concrete floor below. The walls creaked as they settled. Air whispered faintly in the ducts. Someone walked across the floor below, then Unit Ninety-Five's box hummed to life.

That was wrong.

Game slipped out of bed and slid down the ladder to find Jyo, having abandoned the sofa he'd been sleeping on since Baije declared his apartment “not secure enough” and moved him in, picking up Ninety-Five's controller. He kept his feet silent on the floor as Jyo fiddled with the controller, frowning at it, and made Jyo jump when he grabbed his shoulder.

“That is my personal unit. Put it down.”

Jyo spun around, hushing Game and swatting at his hands. “Warn a guy, shit!” He put the controller down and stepped back, hands up. “I wasn't gonna access his interface. I just wanted to get one of his peripherals running.” Jyo held up a datadisc, concealed in his palm and no bigger than the breadth of two fingers. “Just wanted to watch something.”

“What the hell is it?” If Game had a gun, he would have shot him, but for lack of it, he would wait for an explanation before going through the trouble of beating him to death.

“Just an old video, something I recorded when I was little.” Game cocked an eyebrow, waiting for more, and Jyo groaned, swore in his language, and held his hands out. “This ain't like last time! It's just-” He grunted, shrugging. “I can't sleep, right?”

“Why not?”

“I dunno.” Jyo scrunched his nose up. “Guess I'm just too amped up about tomorrow, or nervous, or... something.” He dodged Game's gaze with a turn of his face and tunneled his fingers back and through his hair, shaking it out and making it shimmer in the moonlight. Game caught a whiff of his shampoo and his anger softened, so he let Jyo continue. “So, when I can't sleep, I put this on. It... it relaxes me, I guess.”

Game pursed his lips and considered this, then picked up the controller. The display whirred to life, displaying blue on the projection, and Game held his hand out. “Give it to me.”

He put the disc into the machine and the video loaded, showing an old broadcast. Jyo stepped back and set his hands on his hips, eyes widening to watch intently, and Game folded his arms and frowned at the screen. The timestamp was from more than twelve years ago, and some of the graphics were antiquated, but the races hadn't changed that much. The gleaming black Solarroad, lit blue and white from below the glass and still shifting into place, the cycles in myriad colors in an array of diagonal lines, the blinding lights of the buildings making night brighter than sunrise. The helicopter panned around, catching a view of everything, B-roll and time waste, then focused on the cycles again. Game had been ignoring the announcers as they discussed the year's stats, the leaderboard, the rivalries to watch, all those things they used to make a five minute race last an hour. Sure, there were warm-up races from the local bush leagues, but this recording seemed to start after that. It was three words that caught his ear and made him really pay attention to the recording:

“ ... Canard 'Card' Sanzang, this year's head of the leaderboard! He's the man to beat tonight. We managed to snag him for a moment...”

Jyo heard Game inhale sharply, saw his arms drop to his side, as a smiling face came on screen. Game didn't have to have seen the photographs he'd long since forgotten in the attic of his childhood home to know that face from memory. His smooth jawline, the high, curved peak of his brow, long blond hair that hung to his waist in a loose braid but that night was pinned up into a bun, like he always did to get it into his helmet. His ever-present smile, as crooked as a crescent but gentler than moonlight. His white uniform, striped purple but for the red Aspect logo on the shoulders and back, was as clean as Game remembered and he stood just as tall and strong, shining bright against the black backdrop of city behind him.

" ... Did you have some questions for me?" He smiled at whoever was behind the camera, as it held steady on his face and upper chest and his helmet hooked under his arm.

The interviewer, invisible behind the camera and present only for her bubbly voice, rang in, "You're a notoriously hard man to get a hold of, Mr. Sanzang--!"

"Card, please." Card laughed, waving her off. "It's all I know how to answer to anymore."

"Card, yes, sir. Competition has been rough this season." Card didn't seem to be listening, was focusing instead on something behind the camera then waving to someone in the crowd. The reporter, hesitantly, queried, "I had hoped to ask how you thought to win tonight."

"Oh, that?" Card hummed and rubbed his chin. Game's breath caught and shuddered in his throat and he clenched both fists as the Card on the screen let his face form a toothy grin and shrugged his shoulders. "I hadn't thought about it too hard!"

The interviewer, based on her silence, had been stunned, but soon followed up, "Can you explain what you mean?"

"Hmm." Card cocked his head back a little and chewed his lower lip. "I suppose it's that... Well, it's very simple to teach someone how to ride a cycle." He seemed to look into the camera, right at Game, then chuckled softly. "Though, my poor son, the first time I put him on a cycle, squeezed the ignition too hard, rode directly into a tree at full throttle, and broke three toes." Jyo cackled and elbowed Game's ribs, but Game didn't move his face from staring at Card's in the projection, was dumbstruck, arms hanging useless at his sides. "But one can learn to ride a cycle, and one can learn how to avoid collisions on the track or how best to move through a crowd, but one cannot learn how to be the best racer." Card paused, still smiling, and Game felt the weight of his stare bearing down on him. "There's no way to walk in certain of victory, or even of survival. It's more important simply to keep one's eye on the prize, aim for it, and go." He lifted and wagged a finger like an old teacher might. "If you concern yourself too much with tactic and strategy, you'll lose yourself. It's most important that you trust yourself, the way you feel in the moment. They say that it's all in the mind, but it isn't. It's in your body." He patted his own chest. "We can enhance what we like, our eyes, our ears--" He laughed-- "Goodness, a friend of mine even spoke of rumors of controlling the mind and body like a video game!" He waited for the reporter to chuckle back, barely audible under the roar of the crowd, before smiling and concluding, "But we are composed of more than our parts, and that invisible thumb on the scale is the one that I believe contributes to my victory, more often than not. It's in the heart."

"Inspiring, sir." The interviewer sounded only a little disappointed, but at Game's side, Jyo was beaming. He nudged Game's ribs again just as the reporter spoke. "Was there anything you'd like to say before the race starts? To your fellow racers?"

"Oh, there is the one." Game winced as Card looked into the camera directly, grinning like a half-moon against the neon lights of the city and the flashbulbs going off all around him, then wagged a finger. "Genmu, I know you're staying up to watch, but I want you in bed before I get home! I promise I'll tell you everything in the morning! Wish me luck!"

The shot changed back to the announcers in the box again and Jyo turned the recording off. “I could never figure out how he did the bun thing.” He shook his hair out and Game felt his stomach wring when he realized that Jyo's hair was easily as long as Card's had been, if not longer. Jyo turned to face him. “You might think it's creepy, but your old man, well, for a kid with no family...” His gaze dipped down to the floor. “I wished I had a Dad that cool.”

“He was annoying.” Game folded his arms. “He was clingy, doting, and always talked to me like I was a child.”

“You were... twelve when, uh, it happened, right?” Jyo cocked an eyebrow, but Game stiffened his brow and upper lip.

“Thirteen.”

“Yeah, see, you were a kid.” Jyo shook his head. “I thought I was tough after my folks died and I was left in the sticks to fend for myself, but I was still a kid.”

“Feh.” Game rolled his eyes. “Still.” He glanced back to the rectangle of blue light catching on the dust where Card's face had hung a moment before. “I didn't get into racing because I thought it'd make him happy, or to follow his footsteps. It's not that sentimental.” He pursed his lips, his eyes unfocused and distant. “I picked a direction to move in and started to move, and I've seen no reason to turn around. If I can keep living, that's enough for me.”

“Ain't there more to life than just living?” Jyo stuffed his hands in his pockets and grounded his heels as he faced Game full-on. "I mean, you think you'll just drift and come out satisfied? Ain't you got a finish line?"

"Hm." Game tipped his gaze over to Jyo and crossed his arms even more tightly. "I'll cross the finish line when I see it, but until then, I'm not counting on it."

Jyo frowned and brought his hands to curl on his hips. He cocked his head and rumbled under his breath, "That's sad, man."

"Go to sleep, Jyo." Game shoved Jyo's shoulder away and pivoted back towards his ladder. "We've got a finish line to reach tomorrow." Jyo watched Game retreat, the pale skin of his back bathed and subsumed in the shaft of light from above, until he vanished into the darkness. He glanced back to the blue screen just as it blinked back to idle and left nothing but the moon to light the room, and a smile came to him.

Neither Game nor Jyo slept, thoughts of the next day racing through their minds like so many turning wheels, blurring into dizzying silver spirals against the black road of night.

 

Opening ceremonies were such an impossibly huge to-do. Game hadn't relished the thought of parading through the center street, waving from a carrier labeled with Aspect logos, spewing holograms of colorful dancing mascots in the air all around him. It was, however, what was done, and since the sponsors kept his cycle in good repair, he endured. He was almost certain they were digitally pasting a smile on his face for the benefit of the crowds watching the holoscreens. The evening pre-race interviews were, mercifully, mostly carried by Baije, who politely described Game's "intense practice regimen" in as few, nonspecific terms as he could get away with to be described as "maintaining the mystery" rather than "being suspiciously tight-lipped." Baije then had to stand with Jyo as the reporters flocked to him, recorders out, asking about his falling-out with his previous manager and how the sudden switch had affected his racing and his rivalry with Game.

"Oh, that ain't nothing." Jyo smiled, in his loose, flippant way, and flipped some of his hair back. "Me and Game, it's all just some friendly competition, and I've been better than ever since we've been jockeying for good ol' Mr. Zhu's attention." He'd clapped Baije's shoulder, donned an open smile for the cameras. "This's a good man, right here!" His laughter deflected, his smile shielded, as if he'd watched Baije give the same interview with the same avoidant tactics. Game was only a little grateful that Jyo chose to avoid the trash-talk that evening.

The racers were arranged at the start line under a stadium of bleachers. Spectators were piled in, shoulder to shoulder and all on their feet, trying to catch glimpses. The buildings looming over them all had lights on, balconies and terraces overhead crowded with more bodies, and the holoscreens consumed the night sky. Game's cycle kitty-corner from Jyo's, three ahead between them, but two cycles were ahead of Game's in the lineup- Eight, from the North Division, and Mr. Prince, from the West Division. Game had seen enough of Mr. Prince to know his black and silver cycle, heavy and decked out with bumpers and buffers to blast through the competition, but with a motor that could grind iron and turned even close followers to dust in his wake.

Game knew the Prince's top speed only matched his own. Even so, as the racers were called out to cheering throngs and shouts, he made for an intimidating presence. Broad shoulders, dense with lean muscle, his skintight black vinyl striped silver and interrupted by the Usa-Gi logo (oddly enough, a white rabbit carrying a machine gun), his tanned skin as smooth as his every movement. There was something about his stern, stiff face, though. His face was tighter than Game's, and since Game knew why he himself was grouchy, nobody had a right to be as much of a grousing codger as he did. It wasn't even that Mr. Prince looked angry, nor even had his game face on. It was as if he were forced blank, his face drawn and pinned back. When he passed by Game in the queue space, Game felt a chill.

This was the man he was supposed to die for.

Game heard them cue him up and went to the entrance hall to make his march towards his cycle, but heard a soft chuckle under the announcers from a maintenance channel. He glanced sideways to see a familiar smirking face, half-moon glasses, slicked-back jet-black hair, shabby clothes under a white labcoat. Game held steady as the man approached.

“Mr. Sanzang, it's been some time.” A shaft of light glinted off of his glasses as he raised a thin hand in greeting. At Game's cocked eyebrow, he chuckled and put the same hand to his chest, the other still stuffed in his pocket. “Of course you don't remember. I was a dear friend of Canard. Shame that I lost touch with you after his demise. You were such an interesting boy.” His smile gleamed, white in the stark light from above. “Don't you recall?”

Game squinted at the man, but only faint snatches of recollection emerged. Distantly observed conversations, Card, sundrop bright to this man's midnight black, taking tea in the garden and having conversations that Game was first too young to be interested in, then barred from when he was old enough to understand adult exchanges. He set his jaw and the Doctor chuckled. “You remember, a little. I can tell.” He chuckled and pinched his fingers close. “You were cute, when you were a little thing.”

Game braced himself, waiting for the vulture to swoop, watching his hands to go for a gun or a knife to eliminate him before the race began, and his mind began to scan the room, seeking out any options he had to defend himself. His only thought was to run out onto the track before his name was called, but just as he made to run he saw the Doctor's hand nip into the pocket of his jacket and take out his vapor pipe. He took a few quick puffs, then grinned and lifted his hand again. “Just wanted to wish my old friend's successor luck. Ten years do fly, eh?” He glanced out to the track, the flashing lights, the gleaming road. The announcer's voice echoed in:

“Game Sanzang, East Division, Number Three!”

“Be careful out there.” The Doctor turned around with a flourish of his coat, still chuckling under his breath. “Things can change faster than you'd realize.”

Game's gut twisted as the Doctor vanished down the little hall, then felt a jolt of realization in his chest. His memories of that man, everything he'd seen, something Card had said: it all hit him and came together, and he shivered as the knowledge coalesced into revelation. Still, there was nothing he could do with his knowledge. His number was up. He strode out onto the track with his head held high and the roar of the crowd like silence to his numbed mind.

As the announcers discussed the rules of the Prix on the overheads, the racers all settled in for their pre-race rituals. Number Eight, with her purple cycle and suit, hair all pinned up in a braid on her head, was watching the Prince with nervous eyes, twisting her fingers together and whispering prayers. Eighty-Nine from the South was doing backflips, waving to the crowd and begging them to encourage him. Game was overtly aware of his own tension but tried to relax into his breathing. Just as the calm set in, he caught a hand on his shoulder and his nerves caught fire.

“Shit! Will you--” Game whipped around to see Jyo smirking.

“Warn a guy first?” Jyo took out his vapor pipe. “Here ya go, dickweed. We're gettin' you your own with some of your prize money when you hit first place.” He let Game light it and take a puff, smirking to himself as Game blew a smoke ring. Game then shoved it back to him.

“If you get me my own, I don't get to steal yours, and fuck it, it's funny when you're not expecting it.” Game smirked, then leaned close to Jyo as he took a drag himself. “Are you ready?” His expression shifted to his usual, serious deadpan, and Jyo nodded.

“I ain't afraid, if that's what you're askin'.” He glanced back at the Prince, then around at the other racers. “All we gotta do is survive.”

“I'd like to change the parameters.” Game tightened his grip on his helmet. “I want to win.”

“Eh?” Jyo's eyebrows raised, jaw slack for a split second, before his lips spread into a broad grin. “Don't get me wrong, I'm fuckin' in, but what changed your mind?”

Game nodded towards the Prince and set his hands on his hips. “Because if we beat them, we shut their psychotic shit down. Nobody'll want to lay a finger on the tech they're using.” He tipped his head in, conspiratorially close. “I figured out what the big deal is. Usa-Gi's working on remote control soldiers. Like Card was saying.” He made sure he was speaking into his comm. “Controlling someone like a video game.”

Baije gasped audibly in his ear. Jyo's eyes widened, his smile flattened and vanished, his shoulders sagged with shock. “For real?”

Game jerked his gaze back. “Look at his eyes, his movements. He's like a puppet. Same with the bodyguards always on that Doctor, or the shits that tried to run us down and shoot us.” Game ground his teeth. “Take a look around. There's probably another racer here with that blank-eyed look.”

Jyo's eyebrows rose and he spun around a few times, even as Game groused for him to pretend he wasn't a hick for ten seconds. Then he halted in place, knees locked, eyes wide, snapped stiff with shock. “Ninety-Two, from the West.”

“How do you know?” Game squinted after Jyo's sightline to Ninety-Two, a huge, broad, dark-haired man, shoulders back, rolling his neck. Jyo jerked his head in his direction.

“His eyes. That's not what they look like.” Game sighted the familiar gleam of white in the pupils, and how what even appeared to be casual motions jerked, like a zombie's, his synapses not quite snapping. Jyo squeezed his helmet in his grip until his knuckles pressed out against the tight vinyl of his glovettes. He then threw his hands down like a god casting down lightning, and whipped back around to Game. "I know him. He's-- Fuck, I know him. We've gotta win this." He seized Game's shoulders, sending fire curling through him at the rush of his touch. "Trust me. Trust what you feel. We can do this." Game sensed him about to advance on him, but Jyo instead pulled back and strode back to his cycle.

If there was anything deeper to Jyo's determination, whatever that was had to be pushed back. They could turn everything loose when they came out on the other side, alive, preferably victorious. For now, just breathe. In, out. Push it all down and away: the race, the road before them, was all that mattered. In his side mirror Game spotted Jyo pinning all his hair up to tuck it under his helmet, and put his own helmet on. He took another long, slow breath, then put his lips to his comm.

"Baije says there's a set of hard curves near the end. We'll go there.”

In the mirror, Jyo nodded, tossed a devil-may-care grin the same way he might smile at a girl giving him a drink, then broke eye contact to blow a kiss to one of the women screaming his name from the audience. Or maybe all of them. Either way, he flipped his helmet on over his face and hair, waved his hands one last time, and vaulted onto his cycle.

All around him, the racers were mounting. The announcers were shouting, the judges were calling for racers to prepare-- sixty seconds until start time. Almost in sync, Ninety-Two and the Prince closed the distance between them and their bikes and swung their legs over the seats. Game took a breath in, braced his belly against the engine and his backside against the seat, then exhaled and pressed his fingers to the controls. The mantra glowed with light when he touched the controls, almost white in the bright lights of the start line.

A breath in. The starting lights were on, gleaming red like an animal's eyes in the night. A breath out. He revved his cycle, the engine humming against his stomach. All the cycles around him seemed to sing in tune; his ears rang from the noise.

Game turned his G-adaptors down, because he wanted to fly and feel it.

He pushed his fingers forward on the controls, turning the volume up, and the singing turned to screams all around him. Jyo sounded under it: “We got this, baby.”

Game didn't have time to chide him. The lights were yellow. Baije and Jyo both counted in his ear:

“Three... two... one...”

Game burst out of the start line, accelerating through both Eight and the Prince, jockeying with two others right at his heels. Four and Eighty-Nine rode close, catching his air, damn near grinding him between their wheels, but Game braced down and dropped back then veered up against the inner walls of the curve. This close, he could see the faces in the crowd, but blinded himself and focused forward. Eighty-Nine had pulled ahead but the Prince was closing, his tires snarling against the glass paving slabs, his body tight to the bike, his every tiny motion precise and calculated. He could almost see someone thinking behind each of the Prince's motions. Game, though, Game was feeling.

He'd been riding with the mantra, but never racing. He could feel racers creeping up his back and didn't have to check his speedometer to see he was accelerating. He took the inside curve tight and broke past Four, then began to gain on Eighty-Nine. Baije cried out in his ear, just then, and Game lifted his eyes to see a hard turn and a solid wall. He ground his leg down and veered hard, skidding into the curve, then jerking back into the straightaway. He could kick himself- knocked down to sixth with that slowdown, and Sixty-Seven (green and sleek) was on his tailpipe. And Five, of course, always right on his ass, screaming red, grinding up behind him.

“They ain't far,” Jyo half-shouted into the comm, and Game nodded with agreement. Eight, Eighty-Nine, the Prince, they were shuffling the lead like cards in the hands of a high-roller table dealer, the Prince aggressively nipping in and out of their vision and space, Eighty-Nine bursting ahead in spurts, Eight tense and tight and getting in what moves she could.

“Hang back. Let them jockey.” Game hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until he heard Jyo's hum of agreement. Game could feel his distance from Jyo, indelible, like the sensation of his kiss, and the two matched speed, in tandem as sure as if they were chained by the wrist.

Even so, Jyo chuckled under his breath. “Hey, watch it, you're honing in a little close.”

“Fuck off, I'm nowhere near you.” Game checked his mirrors to see other racers giving them berth, hanging back or creeping around the outside edge, and Jyo deliberately turned his front wheel in towards Game. Game snarled, dodged him, and jerked back in towards him.

“That's good!” Jyo snickered and pulled ahead of Game, using the momentum of his own swerve to pass, shouting as he sped up as if trying to reach his ears, “Don't let 'em catch on we're working together!”

Game held a swear under his tongue and revved up into the next big curve and under a looming set of bleachers. Flashbulbs and screams echoed all around him, blinding Game to everything but the sensation of the road roaring under his stomach. He arched forward into the curve and tightened his grip until his fingers numbed completely. Then he blinked back into the dark, led by his gut instincts and lit by the road and the flashing streetlights. Jyo was only a little ahead, matched wheel for wheel with Eight and then cranking ahead of her, parrying her out of position with nips and leans, threatening and ready to move in for the kill. He was a snake winding around a horse's legs, finally clipping her front wheel and speeding ahead. Game, too, took advantage of her wobble and cranked in around her other side, and he and Jyo wove between third and fourth places like a double-helix as they took an incline.

At the crest of the hill a shadow split out from the dark behind them, and Ninety-Two burst over and past them. He was airborne between them for a fraction of a second, then zipped down the decline and towards his Prince as if drawn by a magnet. Game and Jyo exchanged infinitesimally brief glances through their visors then sped down after him. They passed him, Game first, Jyo a second behind, and approached where Eighty-Nine was still dueling with the Prince. Eighty-Nine began to falter until one good slice from the Prince sent Eighty-Nine careening off and skidding and slowing just to keep from tumbling, leaving just Jyo, Ninety-Two, Game, and the Prince at the lead.

“You're in the last leg,” Baije announced into both of their ears from his place in the observation box, with Ninety-Five's sensor camera and portable intelligence computer sitting in his lap and his replacement eye tuned to the main holoscreen. Above, the four of them formed a convoy in the dark, swerving, dueling with miniscule actions, each tip and tilt dramatic. “You're out ahead, but Eighty-Nine and Sixty-Seven aren't too far back and you're pinned with those two. You're going to be on your own if or when they activate that disruptor--”

“Baije,” Ninety-Five whispered, as if anyone else could hear him. “I got an idea.” Baije hummed back, his eyes narrowed in focus. “Whoever's controlling those guys, if they really are just puppets, can't be that far. Even if they're immune to the disruptor, they must be linked to the voluntary systems, and if they're linked to that Doctor guy who wrote that icky chip I ate, then I might be able to backtrace him and disrupt his signal.”

“No,” Baije insisted aloud, then into the comm. “Last time you toyed with his tech, you burned out a lot of your circuits. We weren't sure we'd get you back.”

“Well, yeah, but...” Ninety-Five giggled and Baije sensed Ninety-Five's wi-fi turning on and heard an alert klaxon as his firewalls turned off. “They're my favorite racers and I'm their biggest fan. I'd do anything for 'em.” The camera adjusted up towards him, and Baije could feel the computer's gaze. “Plus, you take such good care of us. I think I can trust you to fix me if this goes wrong.”

“Ninety-Five, no!” But Ninety-Five disconnected from Baije's communicator and Baije could do nothing but grip the computer in his hands and focus his eyes on the flurrying action on the screen.

They'd been holding for a solid ten seconds, an eternity when it came to races, only speeding up and falling back in formation. “Watch their hands,” Jyo muttered.

“It'll be on the curves. The big one.” Game leaned into the angle of the road, tearing up track and coming tandem with the Prince. The Prince's eyes didn't move. “It'd look like an accident.” He could feel more than sensation now: tension, static between them, and the pressure of the crowd and the millions of eyes all around, bearing down on them. Game saw Ninety-Two faltering and falling back just slightly, and just caught a glimpse of his hand moving. “Jyo.”

“I know. I saw.” Jyo's head bobbed down, and he shifted his weight to his toes and arched his body back. “I'm ready.” All at once he relaxed, and Game could hear him grinning. “Get in the zone.”

“I'm there.” And Game took a deep breath and eased up, falling back, trailing Jyo. Just a little. Just enough to feel his drift. Jyo, too, aligned with the Prince, not directly behind, but just to the left. The curves started and Jyo ground into the first one. Game felt him catch air, and leaned in just the same.

He felt it. He felt his wheels lighten and the noise of screeching tires got sucked into the vacuum of a three-part drift. Game cranked forward and into the aerostream, taking the curve hard. That was the way to do it. No doubt, no holding back. No fear. Just your own senses.

The aerostream felt like white light, like a stream of pure energy, and Game was freewheeling into it announced only by Jyo's encouraging shouts in his ear. He barely heard Ninety-Two screech up behind him, close, too close, but Game's instincts no longer screamed panic.

Ninety-Two touched the disruptor hidden in his hand. Game's vision scrambled. His hearing turned to screams, distorted tones, feedback. Even his bike disconnected from him for a second, his acceleration failing under his hand. But his feelings weren't gone. He could still feel himself moving into the curve, and even felt the next one coming.

Game turned into it, blind, feeling Jyo there through the darkness of his rocked senses, just as the light returned, and he realized that he had flanked the Prince with Jyo just behind him. The Prince had looked up, blank eyes wide with surprise Game hadn't thought possible, just as his hearing clicked back on. Jyo was screaming:

“Let's go! Let's do it! Right now!” And then Jyo hurtled forward, drifting past him. Instead of just watching him pass with ugly rage, Game caught his drift as he passed and followed it, curving around him as they took the next arc. Jyo, in turn, drifted past him again with a whoop, and Game couldn't help but laugh as they two of them traded drifts, back and forth, leaving the Prince and Ninety-Two eating dust.

They caught speed with each pass, blurring together as they interwove in red and blue lines, catching the other's increased speed and harnessing it. Together, they streaked like comets across the black sea of the road, the cosmos reflected all around them in tiny stars of blue and white light from above and below. They, the two of them both, they were blinded to it, caught up only in the sensation of the speed, the air, the light, each other. Game didn't need his eyes, ears, even his fingers-- only his senses and his pure awareness of the universe as he freewheeled end over end into infinity, and yet there his other senses were.

The finish line, red and white checkers shining forth and illuminating even the dome above, flashbulbs gleaming in his view. The screaming crowd, Baije shouting something desperate so quickly that Game couldn't comprehend, and Jyo, Jyo was in his ear, at his side, a hand extended, arching his foot off the cycle, face split with an open grin. Game felt his facade crack and he took Jyo's hand and grasped. The contact seared up and through him like a blast of fresh, icy air, his eyes opened wide. He could feel his cycle decelerating as they broke from the slipstream, but Jyo's hand wrapped tight around his pulled him, and a hand that wasn't there pressed against his back and pushed him along, a voice he would never forget laughing joyfully in his ear.

Their wheels crossed the finish line together.

Game had never heard a louder sound than a chorus of thousands, further than his eyes could focus, so distant that his ears strained to take it all in, as his and Jyo's pictures sprung up on the screens all around them, their images projected on every building, their times absolutely identical. He ground to a halt and slowly, knees wobbling, his feet heavy as the steel soles of his boots touched down. He turned around, dazed, as if he'd been torn open and the affection of all the people around him was pouring in. He'd never felt so alive, and though his cynical instincts told him, 'It's not real, it doesn't matter, it'll be over and you'll forget it soon enough,' he forgot that voice when Jyo stumbled into him, caught him up into his arms, tore his helmet off, and surged into Game's lips for a deep kiss.

Somewhere in his inner ears he heard Unit Ninety-Five laughing with victory and Baije's eager congratulations. Then there was a crunch of metal behind him, and he broke away from Jyo for a split second to see the big guy on bike Ninety-Two running towards the Prince where he'd rolled into the bumpers, his eyes clear and blinking back confusion. Jyo grunted and pushed Game's face back towards his and pressed their mouths together again. Game didn't think, he just felt his way into it, and slung his arms up and around his neck and tilted his head without a second's hesitation.

Jyo's kiss was hot and demanding, his hands caressing and exploring, and Game went from being lost in the moment of victory to being submerged in Jyo's sensuality. Warmth and heat dueled their way up his skin, parrying back chills of rapture, and all Game had was to close his eyes and let himself fade into it, become a part of it.

And with this much sensation, even breathing through it, Game came to a decision. Fuck distance. Fuck close chases. Even when he did take the mantra off, he wanted to keep feeling this. Their helmets clattered to the ground around them and their heads soared through the air though their feet were on the road, with Jyo's hair fanning out as it fell loose and the other cycles cruising around them as they shared the throes of victory.

Game let himself enjoy the moment. It might not last, but he could seize it.

There was always next season, anyway.

 


	7. 7: Bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Game and Jyo celebrate their victory the only way they know how...

**7: BONUS**

Jyo kicked the garage's front door open and swaggered in, Game slung over his shoulder and a bottle hanging in his other hand. The city outside was still lit up in vibrant neon, every bar and restaurant having erupted in raucous celebration. Even after escaping the media frenzy in the winner's circle, receiving congratulations from the judges, taking excited phone calls from their main sponsors, and finding out that Unit Ninety-Five had managed to break into the Doctor's controller and shut down his controls over the two other racers, the excitement hadn't stopped. They'd done something completely unheard of: two racers had never tied in a race before, their wheels not even a micrometer apart. There had been no measurement of time or space that could separate the two, and as Jyo hauled Game in, that didn't seem to change.

He flung Game down onto the sagging couch, planting Game's back into the cushion, then dove in to press his face against Game's breastbone. “Mm, baby,” he purred into the cotton of Game's undershirt. “We had fun, eh?”

Understatement of the fucking year, Game mused without voicing it. He could still taste absinthe on the roof of his mouth. Somehow, Baije had managed to get him and Jyo into the biggest bar in the city, and people simply would not stop buying them drinks. Game never even had a chance to say no, he would put down an empty glass or bottle and find a refill there before he could blink. He had no idea how much he'd put away, but damn if his nose didn't feel like someone had set up a winery in his sinuses. That didn't even count the thrill of the race, still fresh and stinging in his chest and veins. He wasn't sure things could get any better, and he wouldn't dare to aspire to more. Fun was one way to describe it, but from the soft chuckle that rumbled in Jyo's throat, Game got the idea Jyo wasn't done with the fun yet.

Jyo nuzzled his breastbone again and rested his ear against Game's chest. “Hey, you're an amazing kisser, y'know?” His fingers crept, tip by tip, up his chest and started to pick at the zipper down the front of Game's shirt. Game's mouth went dry as Jyo's smooth fingertips dragged on his bare skin, and gooseflesh quivered up all over his chest.

“Don't you fucking ask first?” Game forced out, though it was tight and choked against the arousal spiking through him. Jyo's fingers tingled everywhere they traced, leaving meaningless patterns on his skin as he peeled his shirt open. His touch burned against his cheek as Jyo put his teeth to Game's ear.

“You want it?” His breath, sweet with liquor, bitter with beer, rolled through Game like fog and sent heat coiling in his belly. With that, Game couldn't make intelligent noise happen, and Jyo snickered against the shell of his ear. “Baby, you're obvious. If you don't want, say so, but don't you push back against something we both want.”

Speech wasn't coming, only body language. Game's hips thrust up against Jyo's leg, and Jyo cupped his erection, sheathed only by tight denim, then rubbed it through the seam of his pants. “S'what I thought.”

Game would have sworn him off, but fuck it, it wasn't worth it. It was much more rewarding to lie back and enjoy Jyo pulling his shirt the rest of the way open, then raking his short, blunt fingernails down his chest. His back arched and shuddered, and as Jyo moved his palms up to Game's shoulders, Game erupted in chills. Jyo hummed curiously and tipped Game's chin up, making him meet his eyes, fire dancing in his smile, then pushed his shirt down his shoulders. “Ohh.” His smirk split for a wide, wicked grin, as Game realized what Jyo had discovered: the mantra, still wrapped around his shoulders and arms. “Oh, you left it on?”

“Haven't taken it off,” Game panted, and damn, when had he gotten this weak in the knees? “I can...” He tried to get his hand loose to pull the mantra from his fingers, but Jyo reached in and pinned him down.

“Leave it,” he husked against Game's lips, then leaned in and took his lips in a kiss that wrenched a breathy moan from him. “Don'chu know just how good the world feels?” He knelt up over Game, grinding him down into the cushion. The tips of his hair brushed Game's collarbone, and it crackled through his nerves like lightning. Game was making noises he couldn't control, pleading without words for something he couldn't describe. Jyo just laughed. “You're gonna enjoy this.”

Jyo stripped his own jacket off, then his undershirt, revealing the iridescent wires gleaming just under his skin, the muscles of his belly undulating as he arched his back and lifted his arms over his head. He dragged his chest against Game's, his nipples perking at the contact, a breathy moan ghosting down Game's throat and neck. The echoes of his voice sent chills through Game, his dick jumping and straining at his zipper. Jyo seemed to answer its siren song, popping his button, pulling his zipper and shoving the waistband of his pants down, and grinning to find that Game went commando. “For a monk, you're fucking dirty.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Game couldn't get breath anymore because Jyo kept one hand braced on his neck to tease the little hairs there, and those tiny gestures were like a storm of moths against his libido. “Just... fuck!”

“Gladly.” Jyo used the hand that wasn't tracing the muscles in Game's shoulder now to grab Game's, and guided it to his pants. “Gimme a hand.”

Game's vision was swimming, his senses scrambled from overload, but he managed to open Jyo's pants and pull them down. Jyo helped, encouraging Game in soft mutters and easing himself down and out of his boxer shorts, then tilting his hips forward. Jyo was hard, cock flushed and hot, but Jyo held Game's wrist in place. “Touch me, touch me first, I'm beggin' ya.” He took some lube from his pocket and poured it onto Game's fingers. Game cobbled an understanding and touched his finger to Jyo's entrance. There was resistance, but then he pushed his fingertip in, and Jyo's body clenched and pulled at his finger as if coaxing him, luring him. He nudged his finger in to the knuckle, then pumped it in and out a few times. Jyo groaned and shuddered, his body undulating and all his muscles rolling. The wires tracing his nerves gleamed in the light. Game pushed his finger in more deeply and Jyo babbled, stupidly, “Push in, push it, fucking-” Game arched his finger and Jyo shouted and ground his hips down against Game's erection. “Shhhhit!” He slapped Game's thigh. “Give me more, damn it, or do I have to top, too?”

“If you don't like it, get off,” Game growled, but slipped a second finger in and forced both fingers in to the base.

“That's the idea.” Jyo sounded relieved. He bounced against Game's legs for more friction, fucking himself on Game's hand. Game shivered because with each movement, Jyo's hair was brushing against his shoulders and back, and each hair touching him was drawing lightning in his skin. Feeling it just drew his attention, like a beacon, a cloud of carmine red flowing around his head. His scent wafted closer and Game seized Jyo's head with his free hand and dragged him in close for a deep inhale just as he pushed his ring finger into Jyo's ass. He inhaled, then bit and sucked Jyo's earlobe, and Jyo sobbed and swore but let Game impale him ever deeper.

“Enough, enough,” he gasped, his breath catching, his fingers scrabbling on the soft microfiber of the sofa. “I need more, Game.” He grabbed Game's wrist and held it with both hands, and Game managed to snatch back a modicum of focus in the absence of sensory assault.

“This?” Game cupped his erection, and Jyo grinned. He rolled Game's pants down a little further, lined up, and impaled himself on Game's dick with a slow roll down. He took Game's hand and put it on his own cock, wiggling an eyebrow with a cocky smirk for someone who currently had someone else inside of him, and Game got the message. He gave Jyo's prick a long, slow rub, twisted near the base then brought his hand back up, rippling his fingers to spread pressure and pleasure. Jyo's eyes rolled up with a delighted smile at the sensation, and he brought his hips down to Game's and ground there, returning the favor.

With Game rubbing Jyo off and Jyo riding Game's dick, Jyo had his hands free to wrap around Game's neck and shoulders, and he brought their mouths together in a crushing kiss. Jyo's mouth was welcoming, hard and forceful but with enough give that Game could bite back at him, eating at his kisses, licking at his rough, bittersweet tongue. He tasted good, and Game wanted to swallow him up and hold him there. He knew there was no way they could stay like this forever, that Jyo would get bored, or find something better, or just wander off somehow or other, or even spin out and slam through a concrete wall, eyes wide and staring and begging for something, anything but death, but for now, he was on Game and in him and Game was in him just the same.

Jyo bit on Game's ear, his thrusts picking up speed, Game's dick sliding in and out more easily through Jyo's clenching passage with each pass. “Come on, you bastard, you're the fastest motherfucker in the East, I wanna feel you come harder and faster than-”

Orgasm snapped through Game in a flash of blue and white stars, blinding him to everything else. Jyo froze in place, his head dropping back and his body settling against Game's chest. His hair fell over Game's shoulders in a flurry like a smattering of feathers across his back, as Jyo his orgasm to dissolve into crackling snow behind his eyelids. Game barely felt Jyo's erratic jerking as he rubbed himself off on Game's stomach and came all over his front. Jyo slung his arms around Game's neck and hung there, nuzzling into the hollow of his neck.

“See, now,” he muttered into the shell of Game's ear. “I ain't so bad, am I?”

There was silence. There was peace. Then, there was a soft report from nearby of someone clearing his throat.

“Game,” Baije intoned, and Game forced himself to detach from Jyo just enough to lean back and see him seated at their table, one leg crossed over the other, his jacket off but his clothes still immaculate. He was facing them with a cup of tea at his lips. “Perhaps we should renovate one of our storerooms into a private bedroom.” He smirked behind his cup. “I don't mind, but I have a feeling you just might.”

Game was silent, suddenly sobered as the rest of his sensations went numb, and he moved a hand to Jyo's chest and shoved him off. “You knew he was there, didn't you?” Jyo didn't answer but burst into laughter. Game quickly found Jyo's jacket and snatched the vapor pipe out of it, then got up, grabbing his pants up to cover himself. “You're a fucking prick!”

“Oh, man, your face!” Jyo howled, holding his stomach. Baije laughed politely into his teacup, as Game tried to recover his dignity around his blushing cheeks.

He was still an infuriating, gorgeous bastard. At least that would never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehe, I had hoped to do some liner notes for this, and what better place?
> 
> Baije was originally a placeholder name. It stuck, and I never could figure out something better to use to replace Hakkai. 
> 
> Some of the unnamed racers' names are gags or puns on the Japanese numbers present in the names of the character referenced by their general appearance. 
> 
> Ninety-Two: Nine-two, ku-ji for Dokugakuji  
> Two: ji for Kougaiji  
> Sixty-Seven: Six is "roku," swap the syllables for Zakuro  
> Eight: Can be read as either "ha" or "Ya," for Yaone
> 
> Of course, Forty-Six was mentioned by Jyo. The pun? Four can be read as Shi, six as Ro, hence: Shiro, meaning "white." Haku also means white, for everyone's favorite Hakuryuu. (Shiro is also a traditional name for dogs in Japan).
> 
> I had a few thoughts on expanding the story, as I had things in mind for both Baije and Ninety-Five's back-stories, but I simply didn't have time to include them, and the story was way too long already. I also wanted to do an extended epilogue, showing a conversation between Racers 2 and 92 and Game and Jyo, explaining more about how they got wrapped up in the Doctor's schemes, and showing how they intend to go on as racers. Maybe someday? 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed! Please let me know what you thought!


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